Semua Bab Miss Brown, Keep It Down: Bab 11 - Bab 20

It was the morning after the investors’ presentation.The office of Mason Equity Group buzzed not with the usual financial frenzy, but with something Katherine Brown would later call “post-apocalyptic awkward optimism.”The coffee machine sputtered like it had run a marathon. Someone had brought bagels, but no one dared touch the one with capers. And Katherine? She walked in fifteen minutes late, hair wild, earrings mismatched, her thermos in one hand and a stack of notepads in the other like she was storming a boardroom battlefield.“Good morning, chaos professionals,” she called as she entered the creative department, her voice bright and unapologetic. “Today we make magic, or at least pretend convincingly until 5:00.”The team responded with tired smiles — the kind that said she’s weird, but ours.Katherine dropped her bag, flopped into her chair, and immediately spun around in a full circle before slamming her hands on the desk.“We survived investors!” she yelled.“Barely,” mutte

The Monday after the latte-with-a-heart incident arrived with all the subtlety of a confetti cannon. Katherine entered the office in a red blazer — unapologetically bright, wildly inappropriate for Q1 financial reviews, and paired with glossy heels that clicked like a declaration of war. War on boredom. War on gloom. War on whatever was happening between her and Sebastian Mason that was definitely not flirting. Definitely. Not. She strutted past reception, hair down, attitude dialed to eleven. She dropped her bag, spun into her chair, and announced to the room: “I’m feeling dangerously competent today.” Cara looked up cautiously. “Should I alert HR?” “Only if I get promoted before 11.” --- By Tuesday, the coffee cup came with a pun. Scrawled in tidy, slanted print on the lid: “Espresso yourself.” Katherine stared at it like it had personally proposed marriage. She picked it up reverently, turned toward Sebastian’s office — only to find him on a call again, as usua

7:58 AM. Monday. Katherine Brown walked into the office carrying exactly three things: 1. A steaming to-go cup with Caution: Contents May Be Hot (Emotionally and Physically) scrawled on the sleeve. 2. Her laptop, precariously balanced under one arm. 3. Confusion. Because right there, on her desk, was a folder. A real, crisp, leather-bound folder. With her name on it. Her full name. Neatly embossed on a plaque. Katherine A. Brown. She blinked. Then looked around. “Is this... a prank?” Cara peeked over the divider. “What now?” Katherine pointed. “Who gave me a CEO-level folder? Is this an intervention?” “It was delivered half an hour ago. Special courier.” “A courier?! For me? Was it a horseman of the apocalypse in disguise?” Cara shrugged. “Honestly? Possibly.” Katherine opened it. Inside was a detailed prep for the upcoming Brand Strategy Forum. Everything was organized by topic, color-coded, indexed. Her own notes were woven in — edited gently, n

9:15 AM. Wednesday. The office air was charged. Not the caffeine kind. The pre-thunderstorm kind. Katherine stepped out of the elevator in wide-legged cream trousers, a coral blouse that said "I’m confident but haven’t slept", and heels that probably violated labor laws. Her hair was in a loose bun, with three rebellious strands doing their own thing — just like her. She didn’t know why everyone looked… tense. Until Cara whisper-sprinted to her side. “She’s here.” Katherine blinked. “Who?” Cara widened her eyes like she’d just uttered the name of a demon. “Maddison. Mason.” Katherine froze. “Oh.” The ex-wife. The mythical unicorn of backstories. The woman who once had a matching surname with Sebastian — and, apparently, still the entitlement to walk into the building like she owned it. “She’s consulting now,” Cara continued. “Brand strategy alignment. Just for the quarter, but… yeah.” “Wow,” Katherine muttered, adjusting her blouse. “Could’ve used a warning. Or holy wate

Sunday — 6:08 A.M. The doorbell rang. Twice. Katherine groaned from the depths of her duvet cocoon. She didn’t know what time it was, only that it was far too early for anything that didn’t involve croissants and no responsibilities. But the ringing continued. Then a knock-knock. Then… silence. She threw back the covers like a betrayed lover and stomped barefoot to the front door. “If this is someone trying to convert me to a new religion, I swear —” She yanked open the door. Empty hallway. Except. A large cream box sat quietly on the floor. Velvet ribbon. Handwritten tag. Her name. And somehow, the air around it felt… charged. Like he was still there. --- 6:15 A.M. The box lay open on her kitchen table. Flowers spilled out like a fever dream. Whites. Pinks. Rich blood-red blossoms. The scent wrapped around her like silk sheets — expensive, intimate, personal. Nestled in the center: a card. Heavy. Elegant. With his handwriting. "I can’t unsee