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Lily's POV

An alarm that shrieked at 6:00 a.m. like it had a personal vendetta against her peace.

A five-minute internal argument about quitting life and becoming a houseplant.

A cold shower that attacked her like it had been waiting all night to do exactly that.

And finally the ritual. A silent, desperate plea to the universe.

Please. Not a bad mood today. Not even a good one. Just… neutral. Neutral is fine. Neutral I can work with.

Ethan Cole on a neutral day was survivable.

Ethan Cole on a bad day was a natural disaster in a tailored suit.

I pulled my hair back, grabbed my bag, and was out the door by 7:10.

By 7:30, I drove through the gates of Cole Tech Enterprises.

Even after three and a half years, the campus still did something to me.

Eight buildings spread across perfectly landscaped grounds like polished chess pieces someone had arranged just to make the rest of the world feel underdressed. Seven of those buildings had nothing to do with me. Corporate territory suits, presentations, and job titles so complicated nobody actually understood what those people did all day. Over four thousand employees moved through those grey boxes every single morning.

I was not one of them.

I belonged to the eighth building.

The main building.

It stood at the center of everything taller, glassier, more intimidating than the rest. A circular park wrapped around it like a moat. Every building had its own garden, but the main campus had a bigger park too, where upper management liked to hold events and pretend they were approachable human beings.

They were not.

I knew this firsthand.

Every gate, every entry guarded. Every floor access card required. The ninth floor, where I spent the majority of my waking hours, felt like a different atmosphere entirely.

Same air. Different pressure.

I scanned my ID at the underground parking entrance and pulled into my usual spot far corner, away from the sleek, showroom worthy machines that surrounded it on all sides.

My car wasn't fancy. It wasn't supposed to be. It was mine bought with sleepless nights, terrible bosses before this one, and Excel sheets that still occasionally haunted my dreams. I'd earned every scratch on it. I wasn't about to let some board member's careless door add another one.

I grabbed my bag and headed toward the elevators.

And then I saw it.

Ethan's BMW.

Parked in his usual spot glossy, black, polished so aggressively you could see your own reflection in the hood. The kind of car that made other cars feel insecure about themselves.

I almost walked past it.

Almost.

Something made me slow down.

On the windshield.

I squinted.

Was that…?

Pigeon poop.

Fresh. Wet. Generously distributed across the center of the glass like some kind of modern art installation. Shining under the parking lights like a badge of honor.

I stood there for a full three seconds.

Then the smile crept up before I could stop it.

I looked up and found the culprit immediately. A fat, unbothered pigeon sat perched on top of a sprinkler pipe, chest puffed out, staring down at the BMW with the energy of someone who had just completed their life's mission.

"Good job,"I whispered. "Truly. Keep it up."

I pulled out my phone and took a picture.

For documentation purposes. Obviously.

Then I straightened my face, tucked my phone into my bag, and walked to the elevator like a completely professional person who had not just congratulated a bird.

I pressed the button. Watched my reflection appear in the steel doors.

Do not roll your eyes today. You said that yesterday and you made it to 11:47 a.m. Beat that record.

The elevator shot me to the ninth floor.

I stood outside his office door for exactly two seconds my version of a deep breath and pushed it open.

He was already there.

Of course he was.

Ethan Cole sat behind his desk like a machine someone had switched to Intense Mode and forgotten to turn off. Sleeves rolled up to the forearms. Spine so straight it made my back hurt just looking at it. Fingers moving across his keyboard like each email had personally wronged him and he was issuing consequences.

He didn't look up.

"You're late."

I checked the clock on the wall.

"Sir, it's 8:01."

"I said what I said."

I closed my eyes for exactly half a second.

Right. Okay. We're doing this.

I walked to the side table, set down his coffee no sugar, extra strong, because that's how he took it and I had long since stopped questioning his life choices and placed it precisely where he'd reach for it without looking.

He always reached for it without looking.

Only then did he glance up. His hand wrapped around the mug and something in the set of his jaw shifted barely, almost imperceptibly the way it always did after the first sip.

I set my bag down beside my desk and opened my notebook.

Probably not. Definitely yes.

"Sir?"

"What."Not a question. Never a question with him. Just a flat acknowledgment that sound had occurred in his vicinity.

"I saw pigeon poop on your car's windshield."

He looked up slowly this time. The way someone looks up when they're deciding whether what they just heard was real.

*"Do I look like I'm in the mood to joke with you?"*

*"I'm not joking."*

He stared.

I held out my phone. The photo was honestly impressive centered, well-lit, the kind of image a nature photographer might be proud of.

He took the phone. Stared at the screen. His grip tightened.

*"And the first thing that comes to your mind,"* he said, voice dangerously even, *"is to take a picture. And bring it to me. Instead of, I don't know, telling someone to clean it."*

*"I thought it would be more convenient this way. You would have had to go all the way down to see it yourself, but now that you've already seen the pictu—"*

*"Stop talking."*

I stopped.

*"Go tell someone to clean my car. And get that pigeon out of the basement."*

I took my phone back carefully before the screen cracked from the pressure of his fingers and turned toward the door.

*"Okay, sir."*

I walked out with complete professionalism.

And the moment the door clicked shut behind me, I mentally raised a glass to the bravest bird in the building.

The clock on my screen read 1:02 p.m.

Lunch.

I could already see Diana's face through the small glass panel on the office door — she'd appeared right on time, like she always did, because Diana was reliable in a way that most people simply weren't.

I glanced over at Ethan. Still locked onto his laptop. Jaw set. Fingers moving.

Time didn't exist to him unless he was the one creating the deadline.

*"Sir… can I go?"* I asked carefully. The way you ask someone who might change their mind in the next four seconds.

He didn't look up. *"Hmm. Go."*

I did not wait for elaboration.

I grabbed my phone and moved, nearly stumbling over my own feet in the doorway which, honestly, very on-brand for me and pushed outside.

The second I cleared the door, Diana and I both exhaled at the same time.

Then we both started laughing.

Soft, ridiculous, *we survived another morning* giggles that faded as we walked down the corridor together.

We found our corner table in the cafeteria, plates full, voices low, settled into the easy rhythm that only happens with people who've seen you at your worst and stayed anyway.

*"How's Ava?"* I asked, tearing my roll. *"Fever gone?"*

Diana sighed. But she was smiling. *"It's down. She slept well last night. She was asking for you though. Kept saying she wants Aunt Lily."*

*"She's my baby too,"* I said immediately, completely serious. *"I'm coming over today. I'll bring ice cream—"*

*"Absolutely not,"* Diana cut in, pointing her spoon at me. *"Her fever broke yesterday. She's not having ice cream. Use your brain."*

*"…Soup,"* I revised. *"I'll make soup. Healthy baby. Happy baby."*

*"And this baby?"* Diana nodded at me.

*"Obviously. You too. Don't be difficult."*

She snorted and looked away, shaking her head.

I smiled into my food.

Ava. Three years old, all big eyes and loud opinions and a laugh that could fix a bad day in under thirty seconds.

She hadn't had an easy beginning. Neither had Diana.

Diana's marriage had been the kind of thing you don't talk about in public and can barely say out loud even in private. Abusive. Suffocating. The kind of man who saw a baby girl and decided that was reason enough to walk away from both of them.

It had shattered her.

But it had also, eventually, freed her.

Now it was just the three of them Diana, Ava, and the elderly couple next door who babysat with the enthusiasm of honorary grandparents and had apparently decided that Ava was the greatest gift the universe had ever produced. They weren't wrong.

We'd met two years ago. A corridor, the worst possible timing, and Diana pressing something into my hand without a word or a question or a single trace of judgment.

That was it. That was all it took.

Friends didn't even feel like the right word anymore.

She was just… mine. And I was hers. Two women with bruises in different places, making it work one chaotic day at a time.

*Sisters from another mister,* she'd said once, and we'd both laughed until our eyes watered.

I checked my phone.

1:57 p.m.

*Ugh.*

We cleared our plates, hugged tighter than necessary, and promised to meet after work.

*"Give Ava a squeeze from me,"* I said.

Diana squeezed my hand back. *"Go. Before he starts counting the minutes."*

We parted ways at the elevator, and I took it back up to the ninth floor.

I paused outside his door.

Two seconds. Same as always.

Then I pushed it open.

He wasn't at his desk.

He was standing at the large glass window, phone against his ear, jaw set like concrete, knuckles pale around the phone casing.

I knew that posture.

That was not a good-news call.

*"I don't care what excuse he gave,"* he said, voice clipped and cold. *"Fix it. No. Now means now. Why do I pay you?"*

He ended the call the way someone slams a door.

I slipped in quietly, set my notebook on my desk, and tried very hard to look like I had been there for a while and was definitely not just now returning from lunch.

*"I'm back,"* I said.

*"I can see that."* Still facing the window.

Okay. Mood: hostile.

I sat down and opened my notebook. Looked busy. This was a survival skill I had developed over approximately the first three weeks of working for him and had refined into an art form since.

He turned eventually. Eyes narrowed.

*"You took your time."*

*"One to two is my break,"* I said. *"So I wasn't at my desk. That's how break time works."*

His brow shifted. Wrong answer. I knew it was the wrong answer the second it left my mouth.

*"Do you need me to schedule the 3 p.m. investor call?"* I added quickly.

He held the silence for one long beat.

Then "Yes. And confirm my car has been cleaned."

Right. The pigeon.

"I'll check now."

""FixAnd the bird?"He said it like he was discussing a security threat. Has someone dealt with it?"

I kept my face completely neutral. "I'll find out."

"You better."He picked up his pen. "If I see that thing again"

"You won't, sir."

He looked at me for a moment. Deciding, the way he always did, whether I was mocking him.

I wasn't.

Not out loud.

"Fine. Go."

I picked up my notebook and walked out.

The door clicked shut.

I exhaled.

Long afternoon ahead. Calls, schedules, files. His temper going from overcast to thunderstorm and back again with no forecast available.

But I could handle it.

I always did.

After all I'd handled worse.

And somewhere in this building, a pigeon was living its best life.

That counted for something.