Chapter 1
Madrid had its own music.
Every morning, the city hummed—a low, warm melody blending the rumble of the buses, the chatter of early commuters, and the drifting smell of roasted coffee from narrow side streets. Maya Rosa González had learned to walk in rhythm with that melody long before she ever knew what love was—or more accurately, what she had determined it wasn’t.
At twenty years old, Maya was a contradiction wrapped in a ponytail: a tomboy who looked like she belonged in an indie rock band. A brilliant architecture student who dressed like she hadn’t slept in three days. And a girl who could charm an entire table of elderly customers during her part-time shift yet refused to even look at a boy who tried flirting with her.
Because love, she always said, was an overrated telenovela plot. And she had no time for telenovelas. All her world was sketches, deadlines, and 3D modelling software that crashed at exactly the wrong moments.
Nebrija University bustled with late-spring sunlight. The grand, ivy-edged architecture was a constant reminder that every student there was supposed to do something great—though most of them were too busy surviving midterm disasters to think about greatness.
Maya’s sneakers tapped against the tiled floor as she manoeuvred through the hallways with her usual backpack—overstuffed, slightly ripped at the seams, and carrying enough rolled papers to supply a small architectural firm.
Her classmates waved, called out, or begged her for quick help with something.
“Maya, do you have the render from last week—?”
“Maya, can you explain parametric modelling—?”
“Maya, are you alive?”
She always answered with the same dry smile, “Barely.”
But she liked her life like this. Slightly chaotic. Slightly caffeinated. And always moving.
She had a studio class today, followed by a group project session, followed by a part-time shift at Café Solera, followed by a late-night sprint through an assignment she definitely should’ve started earlier.
It was a rhythm. Her rhythm. And she danced through it each day like a choreographed routine she had mastered.
Her parents, Elena González and Mateo González, lived in a big sunny house with vineyards in Marbella. Wealthy, yes—comfortable, yes—but they never raised their daughter to depend on their money.
“Learn to earn,” her father always said, “and you’ll learn to fly.”
Her mother would simply kiss Maya’s forehead every time she left home and whisper, “Be brave, mi vida.”
Maya loved them fiercely. But she also loved living independently, paying her own tuition with scholarship money and her part-time earnings, proving to herself that she wasn’t just another privileged girl from a good family.
Her mother called last night: “Maya, are you eating properly?”
“Define properly, Mamá.”
“Vegetables. Water. Actual food that isn’t coffee.”
“…Mamá, stop attacking me.”
Likewise, the call ended with laughter that warmed Maya’s entire night.
Café Solera sat on a corner near the university, all wooden tables, hanging plants, and mismatched cups. Maya had worked there since her first year, and the café felt more like a second home than her rented apartment.
She knew every regular by name: the elderly man who always ordered chamomile tea, the couple who argued passionately about literature, and the group of architecture students who lived on espresso.
Her boss, Lucia, adored her. Probably because she could deal with difficult customers with the patience of a saint and the sarcasm of someone who had survived too many all-nighters.
She finished her shift that evening by wiping down the last table, humming under her breath. Outside, Madrid glowed in gold. It was a good day. She didn’t know yet that her life was about to change.
When Maya was at home, hair tied messily, face mask on (Her bestie Carmen’s forced routine), sketching a design for her upcoming studio project, her phone vibrated.
An email notification.
“From: Smith Inc. – Talent Development Office.”
Her pen froze mid-line. She blinked once. Twice. Then sat up straighter.
“Congratulations, Ms Maya González.
You have been selected for the Summer Internship Program at the Architectural Department of Smith Inc., starting next week.
Reporting Office:
Smith Inc., Madrid. South Europe Regional Headquarters.
Supervisors:
Mr. Diego S. Pérez
Manager, Architecture & Interior Design
Mr Arthur R. Smith
Regional Chief Executive Officer (South EU)”
Maya’s eyes caught the name again. Arthur R. Smith.
Her eyebrows rose. The billionaire heir, a devilishly handsome man from the high-profile business parties. The man, on whom she had had a crush unconsciously for over a year, when she saw him in one of the business interview clips on the social media platform.
Everyone in the corporate world knew the Smith family. Scotland’s royal family of hospitality, alcohol brands, spirits, and luxury pubs. Their brand was everywhere—Europe, Asia, America. Their Madrid office, rumour had it, was one of the most competitive branches to get into.
And Maya…a tomboy girl with fading sneakers, a cracked phone screen, and a stubborn streak… got the internship.
She dropped her sketchbook. Then she screamed into her pillow.
After three solid minutes of muffled squealing, she texted the only person who would understand the magnitude of her victory.
Maya: CARMEN. I GOT THE INTERNSHIP.
The phone lit up instantly.
Carmen: WHAT!? NO. WHAT!!!??
Carmen: I’M COMING OVER.
Maya: Do NOT—
Carmen: Too late, Bae.
Carmen was the definition of a glamour queen. Hair always perfect, a diva with lipstick always flawless, eyebrows shaped like they were drawn by angels, fashion sense lethal enough to stop traffic. She burst into Maya’s apartment like a hurricane wrapped in expensive perfume.
“MAYA. GONZÁLEZ. WHERE ARE YOU? YOU SUCCESSFUL CHILD OF GOD!”
Maya stumbled out of her room in mismatched shorts and a university logo printed T-shirt. Carmen stared.
“Dios mío,” she whispered dramatically. “You cannot show up to a corporate giant looking like you take naps inside trash bins.”
Maya scowled. “It’s called comfort.”
“It’s called a crime.”
And just like that, the makeover arc began. Carmen walked around Maya like a fashion detective. “You need blouses. Pencil skirts. Heels.”
“No heels,” Maya protested.
“Heels. Absolutely, Required.” Carmen insisted.
“You need structure in your wardrobe—architecture but on your body.”
“That’s not how that works—”
“You need skincare. Haircare. SPA DAY.”
“You sound like a witch casting spells.”
Carmen threw her arms wide. “And you need to shine, because you are walking into Smith Inc., where everyone is either a model, a genius, or both.”
“Great,” Maya muttered. “So I’m screwed.”
“No,” Carmen declared. “You are my best friend. And I refuse to let you enter a building with a billion-pound Scots looking like a spilt latte.”
Maya laughed helplessly. And maybe…just maybe… part of her was excited.
That night, Maya dreamed. She dreamed of office glass walls. Of architectural models on pedestals. Of lights reflecting on polished floors.
And—though she didn’t know why—she dreamed of eyes. Blue eyes. That she’d seen in the business magazines and tabloids. Eyes that are: Cold. Sharp. Assessing. Like the sky of a country she had never visited. Like they were waiting for her.
The next morning, Madrid woke early. And so did Maya—earlier than ever before.
She rubbed her eyes, blinked twice at the unfamiliar glow of dawn pouring through her window, and wondered why waking up felt…different. Lighter. As if the air itself carried some secret message she wasn’t meant to read yet.
Her backpack felt heavier than usual with sketchbooks, rulers, her laptop, and the half-finished model she promised to fix for her studio partner. She stopped at the corner café for her usual coffee—extra strong, extra cheap—and stepped into the river of commuters flowing down the streets of Chamberí.
Madrid at 7:30 a.m. was a living watercolour painting. Golden light slanted between balconies. Bus brakes hissed. Street vendors arranged fruit in perfect pyramids. Students rushed, businesspeople speed-walked, and the breeze smelled faintly of jasmine and warm bread.
Maya sipped her coffee, adjusting her backpack. Her heart felt strangely light, almost fluttery, as if something was shifting beneath the surface of her life.
Her internship was going to start in three days. Three days until she walked through the polished glass doors of Smith Inc. Three days until she stepped into a world built on legacy, power, and elegance—a world completely opposite to her tomboy jeans and sneakers life.
A new chapter. A new world. A new version of herself, she wasn’t sure she was ready for… but excited to meet.
She didn’t know it yet, but destiny wasn’t waiting for those three days. Destiny had already started moving. Because someone else, far from the campus sidewalks and the chatter of university students, had stepped into the very same city that morning.
Arthur Richard Smith had just landed in Spain. Not for the first time. Not as a newcomer.
But as the man who had been quietly running the Spanish regional operations for over a year, polished, composed, and terrifyingly brilliant. The heir to a business empire built on copper distilleries, vineyards, and century-old Scottish heritage. The kind of man who carried the weight of expectation as though he was born wearing it.
His arrival wasn’t loud or dramatic. It never was. A sleek Bugatti car waited outside the private arrivals gate at Barajas Airport. Arthur emerged with the calm, clipped precision of someone accustomed to schedules, deadlines, and the control of entire divisions.
Tall. Dark-haired. Blue-eyed—the cold, stormy kind of blue that could unsettle even the bravest soul.
He wasn’t thinking of destiny. He wasn’t thinking of love. He wasn’t thinking of interns or girls with coffee or Madrid’s golden sun.
His mind was on meetings. Reports. The annual review is coming up in a few weeks. And the restructuring plan he needed to finalise.
But life doesn’t always announce its turning points. Sometimes the most important chapter begins quietly—like a breath taken before a leap.
And somewhere between Maya’s light steps on the campus pavement and Arthur’s polished shoes walking toward his waiting car, the melody of Madrid shifted.
Paths were aligning. Two worlds were inching closer.
A girl who didn’t believe in love was unknowingly walking toward the man who would challenge every definition she had. And a man who believed he had no space for distraction was about to meet the most unexpected one.
When they met— when brown eyes collided with blue— Madrid’s melody would never sound the same again.
