Into the Fire

"Oh shit..."

Annabelle mumbled under her breath as her face drained of all color. Slowly, she looked up—and met the death glare of her boss.

Richard Barton's eyes were locked on her like a loaded gun. His jaw clenched, his nostrils flared, and with every passing second, his expression grew darker—like a brewing storm ready to explode.

Everyone around the table sat frozen, like statues. Fear hung in the air thicker than smoke. Some exchanged horrified glances; others stared at their plates as if praying they'd disappear into them.

Richard pushed back his chair with a screech that made everyone flinch, and stood to his full towering height, practically radiating rage. The rest of the table scrambled to their feet—because let's face it, who'd dare sit when the devil himself was up and fuming?

Annabelle dropped her head, her heart drumming like a rock concert in her chest. Her sweaty palms clutched the sides of her skirt as she waited, bracing for impact.

Any second now, she was sure she'd hear those dreaded words: "You're fired." Her ears were practically twitching for it.

But it never came.

Richard just stood there. Boiling. Fuming. Eyes burning holes through her. Yet... silent.

Truth be told, this was a first even for him. No one had ever dumped boiling soup onto his manhood before. Not in boardrooms, not in bed—not ever.

Jordan, his most trusted aide, stepped forward hesitantly, hoping to extinguish the fire before it erupted into full-blown chaos.

Please just fire her and be done with it, he prayed silently. Don't go all Godfather on the poor girl.

Before he could utter a word, Richard snapped his hand up—a silent command to shut the hell up—and stormed out of the room like a ticking time bomb.

Everyone let out the breath they didn't realize they were holding.

Annabelle, however, was stunned. Gobsmacked, even.

What just happened? Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Furious didn't utter a single word? No shouting? No firing? Nothing?

But that wasn't even the most shocking part.

She never tripped. She was always careful, practically ballet-trained when it came to serving. So how the hell had she lost her balance?

A light snicker drifted from her right.

Annabelle turned, narrowing her eyes—only to spot the beautiful woman who'd been seated beside Richard. Her crimson lips curled in a wicked smirk, oozing smug satisfaction.

Well, well, well.

There it was—the truth. That snaky woman had stuck her leg out and tripped her. Annabelle's blood boiled. Her fists clenched tight, knuckles white.

She was ready to march over and call her out right then and there—but paused. This wasn't the time. This wasn't the place. She needed to play it smart.

The other guests began filing out, their eyes flicking to Annabelle with a mix of pity and relief. She caught whispered apologies and sympathetic looks as they exited. The red-dress witch sauntered out last, tossing Annabelle a glare dripping with condescension.

Annabelle grit her teeth, breathing deep. She had to be the bigger person—for now.

Then came the inevitable.

"Annabelle, follow me," Mr. Crook ordered, not even sparing her a glance as he marched back to his office.

Annabelle followed like a soldier heading to court-martial. Her coworkers sent her off with murmurs of support and pitiful "good luck"s.

Inside the office, Mr. Crook didn't waste time sugarcoating.

"I can't believe this," he said, his face a portrait of disappointment. "You spilled boiling soup on Mr. Barton. In front of the board. On your first day back. You dug your own grave."

He ran a hand down his tired face.

"I had high hopes for you. You were one of my brightest. I don't want this incident to end your career..."

End of career?

That hit like a slap.

Annabelle snapped her head up, eyes blazing.

"Sir, I didn't trip. I was tripped. That woman—Richard's secretary—she did it on purpose. I swear."

Mr. Crook blinked. "The one in the red dress?"

Annabelle nodded stiffly. "Yeah. The hot chick with the mean streak."

Mr. Crook sighed and lowered his voice like he was spilling juicy gossip over coffee. "That's Julia Walker. Technically just his secretary, but word around is—they're... close. Like very close. High-society type. Big family name. Shows up with him at every event."

Annabelle scoffed. Figures.

"Even if she's your boss's favorite arm candy, it doesn't change the fact that she tripped me," Annabelle said through gritted teeth. "And I don't take crap lying down."

Mr. Crook visibly flinched at her tone.

"What are you planning to do?"

"I'll prove my innocence."

"Kid, don't be stupid," he sighed. "These people aren't playing the same game as us. You poke the wrong bear, you won't just lose your job—you'll vanish from the industry. If you get the chance to apologize, take it. Eat the humble pie. Save your skin."

Annabelle took a breath and nodded, even though her blood was still boiling.

Mr. Crook was a good man—always had her back. Maybe she could play it cool for now. Maybe.

But then came another curveball.

One of Richard's personal guards appeared, face unreadable.

"Mr. Barton wants to see you. In his suite."

Annabelle's breath hitched.

She followed him to the presidential elevator, heart hammering against her ribs. Every ding of the elevator made her stomach twist harder.

By the time the doors opened on the 47th floor, she had psyched herself up.

You did nothing wrong. Hold your ground. No groveling. No tears.

She strutted down the hallway like a queen entering a battlefield.

Shoulders back, chin high, nerves fluttering like mad beneath the surface—but she wasn't about to let them show. If Richard Barton wanted a showdown, he was going to get one.

She reached the suite door and knocked.

No answer.

She waited, listening—nothing.

Frowning, she slowly pushed the door open and peeked inside. The place was quiet. Immaculate. Empty.

Okay. Maybe he's waiting in the back, she thought, her pulse hammering as she stepped in.

The room felt suffocatingly grand—too many plush details, too much silence. Every step echoed with the weight of her anxiety.

Her heels clicked softly across the marble floor as she moved through the living area. Then, heart thudding louder than ever, she reached for the bedroom door.

She pushed it open—and froze.

Holy. Freaking. Hell.

There he was.

Richard Barton.

Tall. Wet. Shirtless.

A towel hung from one hand as he ran it through his damp hair, water trickling down his sculpted torso. Each drop slid past defined abs, across inked skin, over the sharp V-line that disappeared into—

Oh. My. God.

Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes involuntarily dropped—then widened in full-blown panic.

He wasn't wearing anything.

Annabelle's brain short-circuited like someone yanked the main power switch. Her scream tore out before she could stop it. She spun around, slapped her hands over her mouth, and squeezed her eyes shut in horror.

What the actual hell just happened?!

Behind her, she heard the sudden shift—the towel hitting the floor, the deep inhale of someone caught completely off guard.

Richard yanked the towel from his head, brows furrowing into a deadly glare. He hadn't registered the scream yet—but when his eyes landed on her retreating figure, the pieces snapped together.

Uniform. Female. Staff.

Her.

Again.

Annabelle nearly sprinted for the door. Run, Annabelle. Just run before he roasts you alive.

But then—his voice boomed, low and sharp.

"Stop."

She froze like a deer caught in a sniper's scope. Her breath hitched. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but her legs wouldn't move.

"Turn."

That voice. That damn voice.

The commanding chill in his tone sliced straight through her. It was too familiar. It dragged her right back to that night she tried to bury—this same suite, the same tension hanging in the air, the same man whose presence made the walls feel too close.

Her fingers curled into her skirt. Her knees nearly buckled.

But she couldn't run. Not this time.

Annabelle turned slowly, her eyes shut tight. Please, God, please let him be covered.

"Open your eyes."

The words were cold. Brutal. They dripped with disdain—and something else. A test. A threat.

She peeled her eyes open, breath caught in her throat—and let it out in a sharp rush.

A towel. Thank freaking God, he had a towel on now.

Barely.

It hung dangerously low on his hips, clinging to every sharp line of his body, and yet, even then, it wasn't the sight of his body that rattled her.

It was his face.

A storm cloud of fury and contempt.

His jaw ticked. His eyes narrowed, piercing her like daggers.

"Unbelievable," he hissed. "Two screw-ups in one damn day. How did someone like you even land a job in a seven-star hotel?"

The words hit her like a slap. Her face burned. Her pride reeled.

She wasn't some rookie waitress. She worked her ass off to be here. She didn't come crawling back to this job to get insulted and treated like dirt.

Her voice cracked like a whip.

"I didn't trip," she said, sharp and fast. "Your so-called secretary tripped me. The one in red. That hot chick with the smug attitude? Yeah, she stuck her leg out—deliberately."

For a second, something flickered in Richard's eyes.

Recognition? Disbelief? Annoyance?

Then—anger.

His expression twisted even darker, like a thunderstorm rolling in at full speed.

No one talked about Julia like that.

Not to his face.

Not if they wanted to keep their job.

"Scram."

The word was sharp. Final.

A command that snapped across the room like a whip.

Annabelle didn't wait for a second round.

She turned on her heel and bolted—out of the bedroom, out of the suite, down the hallway—her heart pounding like it was trying to escape her chest.

She didn't stop until her breath hitched and she let out a sigh.

Because deep down, she knew—

She hadn't just poured soup on her boss.

She had poured fuel on a fire.

And now?

Now she was caught right in the middle of the blaze.