Miss Brown, Keep It Down

Sebastian Mason didn’t do chaos.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t miss deadlines. And he most certainly didn’t tolerate laughter echoing through the polished glass corridors of Mason Equity Group.

Three months into his quiet return to the corporate world, things were finally back under control.

The press had moved on.

The investors had stopped asking about “the incident.”

And most importantly, no one dared ask him personal questions anymore. Just the way he liked it.

This company was supposed to be a lean, no-nonsense machine. Efficient. Professional. Predictable. Like him.

Until HR walked in with her file.

“We’ve filled the open creative position,”

“You’ll love her energy.”

Sebastian didn’t look up from his screen.

“You know how I feel about euphemisms. ‘Energy’ means disruptive. Loud. Chaotic.”

“It means talented,” the HR manager replied with a diplomatic smile. “And she’s already signed.”

Sebastian's jaw tightened by a barely visible fraction. “You hired someone without my sign-off?”

“Technically, you gave blanket approval for qualified applicants after we restructured the onboarding—”

He raised one brow.

She coughed. “You'll see what I mean.”

And then she was gone.

Sebastian tapped his pen against his desk, stared at the portfolio left in his inbox, and opened the first file.

Slides.

Too bold.

Too bright.

Too alive.

He scrolled. Paused. Went back. Paused again. The designs were unconventional. Sharp. Colorful in a way that shouldn’t work for finance… but somehow did.

And at the very end of the presentation:

“Money talks. But design? It sings — K.B.”

He stared at the screen for a full minute, unmoving.

Then closed the file.

And opened his calendar.

He needed to know when this… K.B. was starting.

---

Katherine Brown had never once been accused of blending in.

From the moment she stepped off the elevator that Monday morning, in a red blazer over a graphic tee that said “Make it bold or go home”, she had already turned three heads and startled a fourth with her laugh.

She was five minutes early. A personal record.

She carried her laptop, a handful of neon sticky notes, and a can of soda labeled “Creative Juice.”

She hated coffee.

The receptionist looked up, clearly unsure whether to call security or HR.

“Katherine Brown. New hire,” she beamed. “Creative team.”

“Uh... third floor.”

“Thank you! By the way, killer nails,” she added, pointing at the woman’s silver manicure.

The receptionist blinked.

Katherine winked and disappeared toward the elevator.

---

The creative department was... smaller than she'd imagined. Sterile. Quiet. White walls, chrome chairs, and silence so dense she could hear the tick of her own heels.

This place needs a heartbeat.

But she was here. And after a rocky freelance run full of flaky clients and unpaid invoices, she wanted one thing: stability.

Even if it meant working under a CEO who, according to the internet, hadn’t smiled since 2011.

Sebastian Mason.

She'd Googled him, of course.

She wasn’t a monster.

He looked like the kind of man who ironed his shoelaces. All jawline and silence.

There were headlines from a year ago—boardroom drama, resignation, scandal.

Then suddenly, poof. He reappeared, opened Mason Equity Group, and built it into a rising star of the private finance world.

People called him disciplined.

Private.

Unshakable.

Katherine was determined to shake him—just a little.

---

He didn’t know she was in the building.

Not yet.

But when his assistant slid a note onto his desk—“Your 3 p.m. intro meeting: Katherine Brown. Creative.” —he exhaled slowly and prepared for impact.

Just as the clock turned 2:58, he heard it.

Laughter.

High, bright, unapologetic.

He looked up.

And there she was. Red lips. Curls. Sticky notes in five shades of fluorescent chaos. A wild kind of confidence he hadn’t seen in years. Not in finance. Not in his company.

She didn’t knock.

Of course she didn’t.

“Mr. Mason!” she grinned. “You’re real. Excellent.”

She entered like the room belonged to her, set her things on the edge of his desk, and leaned forward with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for winning lotteries or free cake.

He blinked.

Slowly.

“Miss Brown,” he said at last. “We usually knock.”

“And miss that face you just made? No thanks.”

She plopped into the chair across from him, crossed one leg over the other, and produced a bright pink folder from her bag.

“Anyway, since I’m new, I thought I’d make it easy and give you ten reasons why I’m not a mistake. Unless you like surprises. Then I might be number eleven.”

Sebastian stared.

Not in annoyance.

Not yet.

Mostly... confusion.

This woman wasn’t a hurricane.

She was a symphony of color in a grayscale world.

And he had no idea what to do with her.

---