The pristine glass doors of Harrington & Whitman gleamed under the mid- The pristine glass doors of Harrington & Whitman gleamed under the mid-morning sun, promising power and prestige to anyone fortunate enough to cross their threshold. For Quentin Hart, a brilliant yet eccentric law school graduate interning at the country's most sought-after firm, this was just another day.
Dressed impeccably in a tailored navy suit, his thick-rimmed glasses framing a pair of intelligent eyes, he radiated calm professionalism despite the whirlwind of cases awaiting him upstairs.
That serenity, however, was about to be tested.
"Out of the way!" a voice rang from behind—sharp, commanding, and entirely unapologetic.
Quentin barely had time to sidestep before a whirlwind of silk, stilettos, and designer chaos barreled past him. The woman responsible for the near collision didn't slow down, leaving behind a trail of expensive perfume and palpable entitlement.
"Excuse you," Quentin remarked dryly, regaining his balance.
The woman—Avie Monroe, as he would soon learn—whipped around with a dramatic flourish, her sleek auburn hair catching the light.
Oversized sunglasses perched precariously atop her head, and her tailored outfit spoke volumes about luxury.
"Excuse me?" she echoed incredulously, eyes narrowing. "You were standing in the middle of the doorway like a lost tourist. I saved you from being a human speed bump."
Quentin raised a single, unimpressed brow. "Pretty sure this is a lobby, not a racetrack. Ever consider slowing down?" Avie planted a perfectly manicured hand on her hip, studying him like he was an abstract painting she couldn't quite decipher.
"Let me guess," she drawled. "Corporate robot with a superiority complex?" "Close," he said smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks. "Just a lawyer intern trying to avoid getting trampled by chaos in heels."
A beat of silence stretched between them before Avie laughed—a rich, wicked sound that echoed across the marble floor. "Touché. But for the record, chaos wears Chanel, not just heels."
"Noted," Quentin replied, his lips quirking despite himself.
Most people would've walked away by now, eager to escape the tension crackling between two opposed forces.
But Avie Monroe wasn't most people—and neither was Quentin Rome. "So," Avie said, narrowing her eyes. "What's your deal, Suit? You're too calm. Like serial killer calm."
Quentin regarded her with practiced detachment. "And you're too... everything." Avie gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to her chest. "Rude! I'll have you know being too much is a full-time job."
"Must pay well," he quipped.
"Beyond your wildest dreams," she shot back, grinning despite herself. There was something oddly refreshing about someone who didn't immediately fall in line with her whims.
Annoying, yes—but refreshing.
"Well, Avie," he said, catching sight of the gold-plated "Monroe" charm dangling from her handbag, "I'd love to stay and banter, but I have work to do."
Her grin widened mischievously. "Oh, you think this is banter? Sweetheart, I was just warming up." Quentin shook his head, fighting a smile. "Good luck finding your next victim."
"Don't need luck," she called after him as he walked toward the elevators. "Just charm." As the elevator doors closed behind him, Quentin exhaled slowly, a strange mixture of amusement and exasperation lingering in his chest.
He'd met countless people in his life—judges, CEOs, opposing counsels with ruthless reputations—but none quite like Avie Monroe.
And though he'd never admit it aloud, part of him wondered if this chaotic force of nature had just altered the trajectory of his perfectly ordered world.
Meanwhile, Avie stood in the lobby, tapping a manicured finger against her lips. For the first time in a long time, she'd met someone who didn't bow under the weight of her presence.
"Quentin, huh?" she mused aloud, the grin returning to her face. "This could be fun."