(Lucy Mitchell — Two Months Ago)

There were exactly three things Lucy Mitchell hated:
pigeons, rainy Mondays, and smug real estate agents with perfect hair.

Today, she was dealing with all three.

She tightened her grip on her binder, the one packed with color palettes, budget sheets, and a hundred reasons why she should be the one to land the lease for 122 Fairmont Avenue. Her future was in this building. Her dream catering and event space.
And nothing—nothing—was going to stand in her way.

Until she crashed straight into him.

Papers flew. A coffee cup exploded against the concrete. She stumbled back, barely catching herself, heart hammering in her chest.

“Watch it!” the man barked, brushing liquid off his pressed navy blazer like it personally offended him.

Lucy opened her mouth to apologize, but then she got a look at his face.
Sharp jawline, colder eyes. And an expression so judgmental it practically slapped her.

Something in her — the stubborn, scrappy part — snapped.

“Maybe try not blocking the entire sidewalk with your giant ego next time,” she shot back, snatching her binder off the ground.

He narrowed his eyes, like he couldn’t believe she dared speak back. “Maybe try looking where you’re going.”

Their glares clashed like two swords drawn at the same time.

Before either could fire off another insult, the heavy glass doors swung open behind them.

“Lucy Mitchell?” the building manager called out.

“And Miles Bennet,” cold-eyes added, stepping forward with a perfect salesman smile.

Lucy froze.

Miles Bennet.
The real estate agent representing the other side of this property deal.
Her competition.

Her enemy.

Of course it was him.
Of course.

“Great,” the manager said, oblivious to the tension thickening the air. “You’re both here. Let’s get started.”

Lucy pasted on a bright, fake smile and followed them inside.

The conference room upstairs had gleaming wood floors, massive windows, and a long mahogany table already set up for the presentations.
Three investors sat at the far end, polite but impatient.

Lucy set her binder down carefully. She could do this. She had slides. She had samples. She had charm.

She also had an uncooperative table leg.

As she shifted a tray of mock-up appetizers onto the table — a key part of her pitch — the wobbly leg gave a slight lurch.
The tray slid.

Lucy lunged to catch it —

—and slammed right into Miles, who had stepped closer to hand out his fancy property brochures.

In slow, cinematic horror, she watched a dozen tiny pastry puffs arc gracefully through the air.

One splattered against the front investor’s blazer.
Another landed squarely in a woman’s open laptop.
A third somehow…somehow…landed in a man’s coffee cup.

There was a long, terrible silence.

Miles stood stiff beside her, hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight enough to snap steel.

Lucy could feel the death glare burning into the side of her head.

“I’m so sorry,” she said quickly, fumbling to grab napkins, but it was like trying to stop a flood with a thimble.

The lead investor cleared his throat, wiping at his sleeve with barely concealed irritation.

“I think we’ve seen enough,” he said, voice cold.

Lucy’s heart sank straight through her heels.

Beside her, Miles turned slowly, his voice tight and razor-edged.
“This. Is. Your. Fault.”

She spun to face him, still holding a dripping napkin.
“My fault? You stepped right into me!”

“You weren’t paying attention!”

“You distracted me with your—your ridiculous brochure parade!”

They were bickering in front of million-dollar investors.

Lucy clamped her mouth shut, cheeks burning.

The investors gathered their things briskly and left without a backward glance.

The building manager, awkwardly clearing his throat, muttered something about reconsidering their options.

And just like that — the dream was dead.

Lucy stood there, pastry crumbs at her feet, binder sliding uselessly from her hands.

Miles shot her one last furious look — the kind of look that promised he’d remember this day for a long, long time —
and stormed out of the room.

Lucy blew out a furious breath, sinking into a chair.

Perfect.
Just perfect.

Her future…wrecked by a smug, infuriating, too-tall real estate agent with a stick up his blazer.

She hated him.

And she was absolutely sure…he hated her too.