Chapter 1: Four Months, Four Days

The only thing that can be heard in the conference room is the clicking of pens, as a dozen executives are deciding Killian's future. Getting this job would skyrocket his career, as Keizen, a Boston-based architectural firm is what any industrial designer like him needs in their CV.

He ends his presentation with a flourish, inhaling slowly to calm his raging nerves before the barrage of questions hits him. He needs this job.

Only problem is, he doesn't want it.

His father, CEO of London's third biggest architectural firm - Leming - and grandmother, chairwoman of the corporation, opposed his decision, through various shades of British passive aggression and snark. All the money and connections and established job and he's squandering his opportunities, trying his luck in The New World, venturing outside of his family's sphere of influence. It would be the first big project under his name and not his family's -which is technically the same- but it feels new. He has to secure a four month contract to oversee the art distribution business.

The assembly looks at him expectantly as he's fighting the urge to throw the pointer away and get on the next flight to London, promotion be damned.

He's not acing this interview, the blonde in the leather suit jacket -buttery, wine red- stares outside the window.

Great.

A big part of his life -and monetary funds in his education- was aimed to teach him the art of persuasion. Enticing women to come back to his place, securing approval for a project by the board of directors, are different sides of the same coin: getting strangers to say yes.

Now his blue eyes have no effect, nor does his conservative presentation, so he throws a Hail Mary. If he's to buy tickets home, he'll watch their faces reacting to his dream project.

"I have another proposition for the Serenity construction site." The words are out of his mouth before he knows it. He's about to go down, better leave them a parting gift. "The space could be transformed into an art center for underprivileged kids, with exhibition sites, administrative offices and affordable housing." He gets more passionate as he explains his vision; still raw in his mind, and more antsy as firms like this rarely risk betting on welfare projects.

But that gets her attention.

Sitting on the furthest side of the table, she scribbles something on her pad furiously, an errant curl obstructing his view of her eyes. It could be notes on him, or a sketch. It could be her grocery list for all he knows-

She nods to the other men and women, sits up, and leaves the room.

His stomach drops. Historically, women don't find him that boring.

(The very opposite, in fact. Businesswomen are fascinated by his youthful glow, cultivated charm and perilous disregard of office etiquette. A string of assistants, secretaries and freelancers filling his days with something other than dread. Until he aimed too high, Milah, her fists on the table, eyes begging to- )

"You're hired, Mr. Jones," the general manager proclaims. "Welcome aboard."

Damn. Only four months, he can hold on this long.

He catches a glimpse of the woman's silhouette walking away.

Four months.

Day 2

Back in London, he's the heir of the family business. When he succeeded, people attributed it to his family's power, and when he failed, he did so despite it. The only way to achieve his dream of being Head Architect is this partnership with a foreign firm on top of the game; that will give him the momentum to expand to global markets. He chose Boston's Kaizen for their innovative projects. Being an ocean away from his family is a welcome bonus.

It proves impossible to walk all the way to the Art Department without people stopping him to introduce themselves, his name proceeding him. He's not so naive as to think their interest is about the project he proposed. Being privileged enough to not care about interoffice politics doesn't absolve him from playing anyway. He takes the time to chat with everyone, from higher-ups to assistants - his father was always stressing how he must be cordial but not too approachable. A litany of names and polished faces demanding his time, asking for drinks and after-work hangs. A polite but firm decline works every time, the need to have a beer with a friend trampled by the chilling realization that he has none.

He stays late for appearances, tapping his chow mein order in the app while taking the back elevator to the parking lot. Opting to splurge in a hotel to sweeten the pill of his stay, he has the satisfaction of dropping on the cream marble floor of the suite as soon as the keycard beeps.

It's cold and hard.

Day 4

The button lights up, but no coffee drips from the machine down to his waiting cup. The break room is equipped with a coffee maker so fancy, it could be plucked right off a hipster, brick-walls-and-light-bulbs-hanging-over-the-table coffee shop plunging South London into gentrification.

In clear opposition to its name, it doesn't make coffee.

This is why people pay assistants, he thinks as he presses another button with a drop symbol in what he hopes will be the magic click. Nothing.

"Why is this so needlessly convoluted?" he bumps the line of keys indiscriminately with too much force for someone who hasn't had their promised coffee yet.

"To torture newcomers."

His head flinches back to the voice. He's seen her a few times in passing but never for long. With her reputation of being cordial yet just out of reach, she struts from room to room shrouded in mystery. Not that she vies for invisibility, the heel of leather boots announcing her in every meeting. He's never seen a person pair leather so seamlessly with office attire, as though she's a western rogue detective turned corporate spy. Yes, John LeCarré novels were his nightime entertainment in his younger years, paired with western americana, it comes close to her image.

"How long have you been standing there?"

He takes her in, her eyes sparkling in mirth in a way that doesn't scream 11 am coffee break, more like an elvish queen after battle, straight out of the Tolkien books he used to steal from his brother's other bedside table.

"I didn't want to interrupt your descent into decaffeinated madness."

He chuckles, mood lifted instantly.

"Are you not entertained?" he exclaims, opening his arms like a Roman emperor. The single button of his suit jacket strains with the movement, another problem Augustus wouldn't face in the arena. Lions he could take. "If you're satisfied with my torture, could you help?"

She approaches to stand next to him, a whiff of citrus following her. He resists the urge to lean in.

"This is going to get more embarrassing for you," she warns.

She slides the cup a wee bit left, then the surface lights up and warm brown liquid fills it in a satisfying motion.

He purses his lips, surprised that he's not as flustered as he'd expect given the awkwardness of the situation. It's the first time he's less than composed at work, and he waits for the pinch of dread - the one that comes when he lets people know him- but it never comes. He takes her in, today it's sharp wide trousers and a sleek leather vest showcasing her toned arms, as she presents the cup with a flourish.

"You saved me." He puts a hand on his heart, hating to be proving Mrs Kimbot right when she deemed his theater skills dreadfully lacking.

"Don't you forget it," and she promptly reaches out to take the freshly made coffee, before strutting away. He smiles, unfathomably charmed when she turns back to say "Vanilla, just how I like it."