Emily Meyers sat stiffly in the conference room, her laptop open to a half-completed presentation. The client, Mr. Bradley Whitman, a stoic hedge fund executive with an intimidating poker face, was already tapping his pen impatiently against the polished table.

This was her chance to redeem herself after a series of mishaps—most of which were caused by Luke Edmunds' endless chaos. Emily's nerves were on edge, but she was determined to push through. She had spent all night preparing for this presentation, triple-checking her data, crafting compelling visuals, and rehearsing her pitch.

"Okay," she began, clearing her throat. "Mr. Whitman, let's dive into—"

Suddenly, the faint sound of muffled piano music reached her ears. She froze. It was soft at first but quickly grew louder, the unmistakable melody of The Fault in Our Stars soundtrack creeping into the room. Emily's heart sank.

"Is that music?" Mr. Whitman asked, raising an eyebrow.

Emily forced a tight smile. "Uh, just some background noise from the office. Let me close the door."

As she got up, the door flew open.

"LUKE!" she hissed, her voice low but filled with venom.

And there he was—Luke Edmunds, sweeping into the room like a Broadway actor entering stage left. He held a tissue box in one hand and a glass of water in the other, his expression solemn and theatrical.

"Forgive me for interrupting," he said, addressing Mr. Whitman directly. "I just couldn't let this meeting go on without offering some... emotional support."

"What the hell are you doing?" Emily snapped, stepping in front of him.

Luke ignored her, setting the tissue box on the table in front of Mr. Whitman. "I understand the stock market can be a cold and unforgiving place," he said, his voice soft and empathetic. "But sometimes, all we need is a little kindness."

Mr. Whitman blinked, clearly caught off guard. "Excuse me?"

"Have you ever felt the crushing weight of a market dip?" Luke asked, his tone dripping with faux sincerity. "The agony of watching your portfolio plummet? It's okay to feel. It's okay to cry."

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. "Luke, get out."

But Luke wasn't done. He picked up the tissue box, dramatically pulling one out and handing it to Mr. Whitman. "Here. For the moments that feel too heavy to bear."

Mr. Whitman stared at the tissue like it was a foreign object. "I'm fine, thank you."

Emily stepped in, snatching the tissue box away. "What Luke meant to say is that the market is unpredictable, but our strategies are not. And I'd love to explain that with the presentation I prepared—if I could get back to it."

Luke gasped, clutching his chest. "Emily, how could you downplay the human side of this business?"

"Luke," she said through gritted teeth, "leave."

Instead, he sat down in an empty chair, folding his hands on the table as if he belonged there. "I think I'll stay. I'd love to hear how you plan to navigate the market volatility."

Emily's eye twitched. "You're not invited to this meeting."

"Neither was emotional suppression," Luke shot back, waving a tissue like a white flag.

Mr. Whitman cleared his throat, clearly unimpressed. "Ms. Meyers, do you have a presentation or not?"

"Yes," Emily said quickly, clicking to the first slide on her laptop. "Right, as I was saying—"

But as she spoke, Luke began sniffling. At first, it was subtle, barely audible over her voice. Then he let out a small, pitiful sob.

Emily paused, glaring at him. "Are you seriously crying?"

"It's just..." Luke said, dabbing at his eyes with a tissue. "Your dedication to this presentation is so inspiring."

"You're lying," she said flatly.

"No," he said, his voice trembling. "It's beautiful. Look at you, fighting for your client's trust despite all the challenges. It's... breathtaking."

Emily turned to Mr. Whitman. "I promise he's not a part of this presentation."

"Clearly," Mr. Whitman said dryly.

Emily powered through, ignoring Luke's increasingly dramatic sobs as she presented her market analysis. But every time she tried to focus on the data, Luke would sniffle louder or let out a mournful sigh.

Finally, when she reached the slide on emerging markets, Luke let out a full-on wail.

"That's enough!" Emily snapped, slamming her laptop shut. "What is your problem?"

"I'm just so moved," Luke said, holding his chest like he was in pain. "The resilience! The determination! You're like Hazel Grace, standing tall despite it all."

Emily stared at him, her patience gone. "If you call me Hazel Grace one more time—"

Mr. Whitman, who had been watching the scene with increasing irritation, finally stood. "I've seen enough."

Emily froze. "Wait, Mr. Whitman, I—"

He held up a hand. "Ms. Meyers, I appreciate your effort, but I don't have time for this nonsense. Good day."

And with that, he walked out, leaving Emily and Luke in the conference room.

For a moment, the room was silent. Then Emily turned to Luke, her face a mask of fury.

"You ruined everything."

Luke blinked innocently. "Me? I was just being supportive."

"Supportive?" she shouted. "You crashed my meeting, made a fool of me, and drove away my client!"

"Well, maybe he wasn't the right client for us," Luke said, shrugging. "If he can't handle a little vulnerability, how's he supposed to handle the market?"

Emily's fists clenched at her sides. "I'm going to kill you."

He gasped, clutching the tissue box protectively. "You wouldn't hurt someone who's already crying, would you?"

"You're not crying!" she yelled. "You're faking it—again!"

Luke grinned, his crocodile tears vanishing instantly. "Maybe. But it worked, didn't it?"

She let out a frustrated scream and stormed out of the room, leaving Luke alone with the tissue box.

Back at her desk, Emily sat down, her hands trembling with rage. Her phone buzzed with a notification.

Luke Edmunds: Instagram Story

She groaned, opening it.

The video showed Luke in the conference room, holding a tissue and addressing the camera. "Breaking news: Emily Hazel Grace Meyers brings Wall Street to tears with her inspiring resilience."

The caption read: "#StockMarketSobStory #OfficeDrama "

Her blood boiled as she typed out a reply:
"You're unbearable."

His response came almost immediately:
"And you're predictable, Hazel Grace. "

She threw her phone onto her desk, glaring at the empty tissue box he had left behind.

The feud wasn't over—not by a long shot. But as Emily sat there, plotting her next move, she vowed that Luke would regret underestimating her.

Because if he thought this was the end, he was sorely mistaken.