Nora's POV
The coffee mug exploded against the wall, missing my head by three inches.
"This is lukewarm!" Dominic Kane's voice could freeze hell itself. "I asked for hot coffee, Ms. Chen. Not bath water."
I stood in his office doorway, watching expensive coffee drip down his designer wallpaper, and counted to ten in my head. One, two, three—don't murder your boss on Christmas Eve. Four, five, six—you need this job. Seven, eight, nine—
"Well?" His gray eyes locked onto mine like a predator spotting prey. "Are you going to stand there all day, or are you going to fix this?"
Ten.
"I'll get you a new cup, Mr. Kane." My voice came out sweet as poison. "Would you like me to stick my hand in the coffee pot first to make sure it's hot enough? Maybe burn myself a little for your convenience?"
His jaw tightened. For one second, something flashed in those cold eyes—surprise? Interest? Then the ice wall came back up.
"Just bring me coffee that doesn't taste like garbage. And the Reynolds report. And confirm my dinner reservation at seven. Move."
I turned on my heel and walked out, fighting the urge to slam his door. Two years. Two years I'd worked as Dominic Kane's executive assistant, and every single day was like today. He was demanding, impossible, and so incredibly handsome it made me want to scream.
That last part was the worst part.
Because somewhere between his constant criticism and his stupid perfect face, I'd developed the world's most inconvenient crush on my horrible boss.
"Rough morning?" Jasmine poked her head out of her office as I stomped past. My best friend worked in HR, which meant she heard all the office gossip. "I heard the coffee incident from three floors down."
"He threw it at the wall this time. Last week he just glared at it until I took it away." I collapsed against her doorframe. "Jazz, I can't do this anymore. He's making me crazy."
"He's making you crazy because you want to kiss him," Jasmine said with a grin. "You get that look every time you talk about him."
"I get the 'I want to murder him' look."
"Same thing with you two." She checked her watch. "Listen, the Christmas party starts in four hours. You need to finish decorating the main conference room, confirm catering, and somehow survive until five o'clock without committing homicide. Can you do that?"
I groaned. "The party. I forgot about the stupid party."
"It's mandatory. Boss's orders." Jasmine waggled her eyebrows. "Maybe you'll catch Dominic under the mistletoe."
"I'd rather catch the flu."
But as I headed to the break room for his replacement coffee, my traitorous brain painted that exact picture. Me and Dominic under mistletoe, his hands in my hair, those cold eyes finally burning with something other than annoyance—
"Get it together, Nora," I whispered to myself.
The problem was Dominic Kane in real life versus Dominic Kane in my imagination were two completely different people. Real Dominic was a thirty-four-year-old billionaire CEO who treated me like an annoying insect. Imaginary Dominic was... well. Let's just say my dreams about him were not workplace appropriate.
I made his coffee exactly the way he liked it—black, no sugar, hot enough to burn. Grabbed the Reynolds report from the printer. Checked his dinner reservation at that fancy restaurant he always went to. Alone. Always alone.
For a man who looked like a movie star and had more money than some small countries, Dominic Kane was weirdly solitary. No girlfriend. No dates. No family except his uncle Marcus who called sometimes. Just work, work, and more work.
It would be sad if he wasn't such a jerk about everything.
I knocked on his door. "Come in," he barked.
His office was all glass and steel with a view of Manhattan that cost more than my entire apartment. Dominic sat behind his massive desk, typing furiously on his computer. He didn't look up.
"Coffee on the desk. Report next to it. Your reservation is confirmed for seven at Maestro's." I kept my voice professional. "Anything else, Mr. Kane?"
"Yes." He finally looked up, and something in his expression made my stomach flip. "Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Fight back. Every other assistant I've had just takes my criticism and stays quiet. You argue."
I blinked. "Do you want me to stop?"
"I didn't say that." He leaned back in his chair, studying me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve. "You've worked here two years. Most people quit after six months. Why do you stay?"
Because I need the money. Because this job pays twice what anyone else would pay me. Because my parents died when I was nineteen and left me with nothing but debt and determination.
Because sometimes, in tiny moments like this, you look at me like I'm actually a person instead of a coffee-delivery machine.
I couldn't say any of that. So I shrugged. "The benefits are good."
Something almost like a smile touched his mouth. Almost. "The benefits."
"And the view from this office is nice."
"The view." Was he sitting closer? When did he stand up? "What else?"
My heart hammered. We were having an actual conversation. Not yelling. Not throwing things. Just... talking. Dominic moved around his desk, and suddenly he was only a few feet away. This close, I could see tiny flecks of silver in his gray eyes. Could smell his cologne—expensive and dark.
"Ms. Chen." His voice dropped lower. "Nora."
He never used my first name. Never.
"I—" My phone buzzed in my pocket, breaking whatever weird spell had fallen over us. I fumbled for it, saw the screen, and my blood turned to ice.
The message was from my landlord: "Eviction notice filed. You have 48 hours to pay $6,000 in back rent or you're out. Merry Christmas."
Six thousand dollars. I didn't have six thousand dollars. I barely had six hundred.
I must have made some sound—some small noise of panic—because Dominic's expression shifted. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I—I have to go. The decorations for the party." I backed toward the door, phone clutched in my shaking hand. "Excuse me."
I practically ran from his office, down the hall, into the bathroom. Locked myself in a stall and stared at the message.
Forty-eight hours. Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and then I'd be homeless.
Two years of working myself to death, and I was still one emergency away from losing everything.
I pressed my forehead against the cold metal door and tried not to cry.
My phone buzzed again.
Another message. But this one wasn't from my landlord.
It was from an unknown number: "I know what you need. Come to Winter's Wishes antique shop on Bleecker Street tonight at 9 PM. Your Christmas miracle is waiting."
I stared at the screen, heart pounding.
What the hell was this?
Who sent this?
And why did part of me—the desperate, terrified part that had nothing left to lose—actually want to go?