A high-pitched shriek ripped through the sterile quiet of Aethelgard Designs, immediately followed by the wet thud of metal and ceramic against the stark white wall. Maeva Corliss instinctively threw her arms over her head, though it did little to protect the meticulously rendered facade of the Aerion Tower commission that now lay beneath a steaming, grimy deluge. Dark, bitter rivulets snaked across her final blueprints, obscuring the intricate lattice work and the signature soaring spire. The bespoke espresso machine, a housewarming gift from Garrick Lydell before he’d stolen her firm and her future, lay in splintered pieces, its internal mechanisms splayed like a gutted organism. “No,” she whispered, the word a raw rasp. It wasn’t an accident. The lingering scent of burnt wiring, distinct from the acrid roast, told a more insidious story. Garrick. A delayed booby-trap, a final, spiteful flourish for his grand exit, perfectly timed to detonate the morning her most crucial design was due. He’d always been a master of calculated cruelty, a virtuoso of the slow, grinding sabotage. Fury, cold and sharp, ignited in her chest, chasing away the shock. Her reflection in the now-splattered glass partition showed a woman covered head to toe in dark brown muck, stray strands of auburn hair plastered to her forehead. Her pristine cream linen suit, chosen for its professional gravitas, looked like it had lost a wrestling match with a mudslide. There was no time to change, no time to clean the monumental mess. The Obsidian Bean café, and the solution to her immediate problem, awaited. She grabbed her satchel, the thick manila envelope containing the NDA, and a crisp stack of bills. Garrick thought he could bury her? She would rise from the ashes, and then she would bury him under a crown of glass and spite so sharp it would flay him. The Zenith Design District, usually a symphony of muted luxury and hushed ambition, blurred past Maeva as she practically sprinted. Heads turned, some in mild amusement, others in outright disdain, at the sight of an espresso-drenched architectural prodigy. She ignored them all. Her mind raced, calculating, planning. Garrick’s engagement party was tonight. He’d made sure to invite her, a final twist of the knife, parading his new heiress fiancée, Lissette, a woman whose only discernible talent was her bank account. Maeva wouldn’t just attend. She would arrive with a man who would make Garrick choke on his champagne. A man who looked like he’d walked off the cover of a high-fashion magazine, a man who, for the right price, would play the doting lover with convincing zeal. She burst into the narrow alleyway behind The Obsidian Bean, scanning for the companion she’d painstakingly vetted through a discreet broker. The listing’s description had been vague: “discreet, devastatingly handsome, flexible.” Her gaze landed on a man leaning against a dumpster, adjusting the cuff of a charcoal suit jacket that fit him with unnerving perfection. His dark hair, almost black, fell across a high forehead, and his profile was sharp, aristocratic. He looked… expensive. More expensive than she’d anticipated. “You must be him,” Maeva declared, striding forward, her voice tight with a mixture of exhaustion and adrenaline. She didn’t wait for a response, just thrust the manila envelope and the wad of cash at him. “Here. The NDA. Don’t even think about running off with it. Your employer knows where to find you. One million kroners for tonight. Strictly professional. No funny business. Just look utterly smitten with me, especially when Garrick Lydell is looking.” The man slowly turned. His eyes, a striking shade of deep sapphire, held an unexpected glint of amusement, not surprise. A faint, almost imperceptible scar traced the line of his left brow. He was impossibly handsome, even more so up close, with a quiet intensity that belied her assessment of him as a mere hired companion. He plucked the envelope from her hand, his fingers long and elegant, and effortlessly caught the cash before it could flutter to the grimy pavement. “My agency?” he murmured, a low, resonant tone that made the alleyway air feel suddenly thicker. “And one million kroners for ‘tonight’?” He glanced down at the document, then back at her, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “You’re quite direct, aren’t you, Ms. Corliss?” “How do you know my name?” Maeva snapped, her guard instantly up. The service hadn’t given her name out, only her alias. This wasn’t right. “Never mind. Just sign the damn thing. Read the terms, but don’t waste my time. We have to be at the engagement party by seven.” He smoothly produced a pen from an inner jacket pocket, uncapped it with a precise click, and scanned the document. His gaze lingered on the clauses, a faint frown creasing his brow before he shrugged, a movement of surprising grace. He scribbled a signature at the bottom, a flourish of loops and sharp angles. “Soren of Altara,” he read aloud, his voice devoid of any inflection, as if testing the name. “Interesting.” Maeva snatched the NDA back, stuffing it into her bag. “Good. Now, we have one more stop before Garrick’s little circus. Consider it part of the ‘smitten’ act. It’ll make the whole charade more convincing. More permanent, even.” Soren raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, a silent question. The sapphire eyes regarded her with an unnerving calm, despite her disheveled state and aggressive demeanor. Maeva met his gaze head-on, her chin lifting. “We aren’t just going to a party, Mr. Altara. We are going to a chapel first. To get married.” A beat of absolute silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant hum of city traffic. Soren’s amusement didn’t vanish, but it deepened, evolving into something more profound, a dangerous spark in his eyes. He leaned back against the dumpster, crossing his arms. “Married, you say?” A slow smile spread across his face, a genuine warmth that seemed out of place in the grimy alleyway. “Well. I suppose I could be persuaded.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over her coffee-stained clothes. “Provided you buy me a cup first.”

The Espresso Incident and the Accidental Prince