CHAPTER 5: THE MURDEROUS ESPRESSO MACHINE

The clock read nine-twelve in the morning. I desperately needed caffeine, or my brain, already fried from the stress of signing a fraudulent contract, was going to shut down completely.

The problem was the coffee maker in my office.

Calling it a "coffee maker" was an insult. That chrome monster embedded in the mahogany wall looked like the control panel of a space shuttle. It had two analog pressure gauges, four stainless steel nozzles, and a touchscreen with options written entirely in Italian. I was used to boiling water in an aluminum pot and stirring in a spoonful of off-brand instant coffee. This was alien territory.

I tapped a button that said Espresso Doppio and then grabbed a little metal pitcher sitting to the side, assuming it was for heating milk. There was a red lever with the word Vapore. Sounded harmless enough. I pushed the lever down.

It was like opening the gates of hell itself.

A blast of industrial-pressurized steam shot out of the nozzle with a deafening shriek, slamming into the milk inside the pitcher. The white liquid flew into the air like a geyser, bouncing off my face, my hair, and, worst of all, landing dead center on my precious thrift-store blouse.

"Damn it, turn off, you Italian demon!" I yelled, smashing random buttons on the touchscreen while hot foam blurred my vision.

I finally managed to shove the red lever back up. The demonic shrieking stopped instantly. I stood there panting, arms outstretched, my hair dripping with frothed milk, and a white stain covering me from my collar to my belly button. I looked like I had just survived an explosion at a dairy factory.

I grabbed a handful of cloth napkins next to the machine and started frantically scrubbing my chest. This was a disaster. My first day as "Vice President" and I already smelled like baby spit-up.

"What a... handcrafted technique for making a cappuccino, darling."

I froze.

I slowly turned my head toward the glass door of my office. Leaning against the frame with her arms crossed and a smile as sharp as a scalpel, was a woman who looked like she’d stepped right off the cover of Business Vogue.

She was blonde, with hair straightened to millimeter perfection, high cheekbones, and an immaculate white designer suit that screamed "zero percent body fat and one hundred percent ambition." Her stiletto heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she took a step inside. She looked me up and down, letting the contempt bleed through her blue eyes.

"I’m Vanessa Sterling, Director of International Operations," she introduced herself, without offering a hand. Her gaze locked onto the milk stain on my blouse. "And you must be Camila Dupont. Our majority partner's mysterious European miracle. I must admit, I was expecting something with a bit more... class."

I rubbed my forehead with the back of my hand, trying to wipe a drop of foam from my eyebrow. My street instinct, the exact one I used to fight for seats on public transit, roared to life inside me. This conceited viper was marking her territory. She wanted to intimidate me.

"Looks can be deceiving, Ness," I shot back, using the nickname on purpose just to watch her jaw tense. "In Europe, we learn not to rely on physical appearance. It’s a minimalist approach. We call it corporate image deconstruction."

Vanessa let out a dry little laugh, completely devoid of humor.

"Deconstruction. What a charming word to justify bad taste," she said, taking a step closer. The smell of her floral perfume irritated my nose. "I’ve worked for five years to earn my seat on that board, Camila. I know every single number in this company. I don't know what kind of game your father is playing by putting you here, but consider yourself warned: rich girls who come to play executive usually end up crying in the bathroom before the first quarter is over."

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my chin high. I wasn't even a rich girl. I was unemployed with an eviction countdown ticking over my head. If she knew the truth, she wouldn't be threatening me; she’d be calling the cops.

"Don't worry about my tears," I replied, pretending to adjust the collar of my soaked blazer. "I’m excellent at dealing with hostile environments. I survive worse things every single day."

Vanessa narrowed her eyes, trying to figure me out. She was probably expecting the real Dupont heiress to get offended and throw a reality-show-worthy tantrum, not to stand there, smelling like boiled milk, stubbornly holding her gaze.

"Fascinating. We’ll see if your corporate deconstruction survives Maximiliano." Vanessa checked her white-gold watch and gifted me one last icy smile. "I suggest you try to dry that off. The board meeting starts in exactly two minutes. Max hates tardiness almost as much as incompetence."

She turned on her heel and marched out with the precision of a high-fashion soldier.

I was left alone, staring at the milky disaster on my blouse. Two minutes.

I sprinted into the office’s private bathroom. I grabbed the automatic hand dryer, leaned over at a ridiculous angle, and let the hot air blast the stain. It didn't disappear, of course, but at least it stopped dripping. I buttoned my blazer all the way up to my neck, hiding the worst of the mess under the lapels, even though I now looked like I was dressed for a blizzard instead of a board meeting.

I grabbed the leather notepad, a pen, and ran down the hallway. I was heading straight into the lion's den.