Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 76: Miss Miller and Mr. Walton: Round one

Things are back to normal.

Well, sort of.

It’s been a week since Levi dropped me off. Dad gave me a mini lecture — the classic worried-dad mode. I borrowed his phone to call Aria and explain everything in half-hysterical whispers. She freaked out. Cried. Threatened to come over. I told her not to — not because I didn’t want her there, but because I didn’t know how to explain it twice without mentally combusting.

And then the goons came. Scary looking men showed up at our gate

Bodyguards? Henchmen? I don’t know what to call them — they looked like they could skin me alive without blinking.

They handed over a sleek paper bag containing my purse, a single flower with a small note — Mr. Walton’s apologies — and a round box filled with a teddy bear and the most mouth-melting cookies I’ve ever tasted.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw it out the window.

Still don’t.

Now Mr. Walton is back to being... well, Mr. Walton. Just my boss. A jerk — but a distant, colder kind of jerk. Thank God he’s not being weird anymore. But if I hear "Miss Miller" one more time, I swear I’m going to toss a stapler at him. Miss Miller this, Miss Miller that. It’s every goddamn second. I feel like I could fry him on the spot.

Although the gesture he made with those gift and apolgy was cute. But was it effective? No

Just because he sent all that doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him. Not even close.

The man thought I was a gold digger — a gold digger! — and still hired me anyway. Like, what? Was he planning to monitor me like a science experiment? Keep me close so he could confirm his twisted little theory?

He thought the worst of me and still signed the contract. What kind of power play is that?

So, no. I’m not letting that slide.

I’m going to teach Mr. Adrien Walton a lesson. A personal, professional, painfully polite lesson. He’s going to regret every annoying assumption he’s ever made about me.

This is war.

And this?

This is round one.

I was mid-thought, sleep-deprived and caffeine-starved, making his coffee in the break room — or, as I’ve renamed it, the "war prep station" — when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Hey," a voice said behind me. "Your coffee is overflowing."

I looked down and saw a frothy disaster.

"Oh my God," I muttered while I scrambled to stop the machine. "That was for Mr. Walton."

The guy — I think his name is Sam, from marketing — chuckled and grabbed a mug. "Well, looks like you’re making another. Good luck surviving the CEO of Antarctica."

I gave him a tight smile while I reached for a fresh cup. Great. Burned coffee, time running out, and a boss who thinks I’m a walking sugar baby.

I scooped a spoonful of ground beans into the machine. Then paused.

Tilted my head and smirked.

"Oh no," I murmured to absolutely no one, "Did I just—accidentally—use the extra dark roast?"

Oops.

My smirk widened as I carefully measured out the extra dark roast, the kind that tasted like bitter disappointment and regret──like how I felt whenever I thought about the ’gold digger’ comment.

I knew he preferred the standard blend, smooth and vaguely sophisticated, like him if you squinted and ignored the personality defects.

And was that... two extra shots of espresso?

Double oops.

My fingers trembled slightly with a mix of mischief and a tiny bit of nerves as I hit the button.

The machine whirred and sputtered, brewing up a concoction specifically designed to induce maximum jitteriness and instill the kind of existential dread that only industrial strength caffeine can provide.

I poured the dark, potent brew into his favourite mug – the one that said "World’s Okayest Boss" (a joke from an intern last year, which I now found deeply ironic).

I stirred in the single packet of Splenda he allowed himself – an island of artificial sweetness in a sea of bitter retribution.

With just a whisper of milk — which I know he hates in his coffee (and a little bit of sugar that my hand slipped by putting in) and a smile that said enjoy your suffering, I poured the devil’s brew into his mug.

I set the mug down gently on the small tray and beside it, I placed a single, perfectly crisp biscotti - a peace offering that he wouldn’t even appreciate as he gets lost in the chemical warfare brewing in his cup.

I walked down the hallway, the mug surprisingly heavy in my hand, or maybe that was just the weight of my impending rebellion. My heart hammered, a mix of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated spite.

I reached his office door, the imposing glass and dark wood barrier that separated the CEO’s ice palace from the mere mortals. I knocked twice, sharp and clear.

"Enter," came the familiar, clipped voice.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside with perfect posture and deadpan eyes.

Adrien looked up from his desk as I entered, all cold detachment and unreadable expressions. novelbuddy-cσ๓

"Your coffee, Mr. Walton," I said sweetly, setting the mug down like it was made of gold.

"Thank you, Miss Miller," he said, the words flat and devoid of warmth. He picked up the mug.

I watched, trying to hide the tremor in my hands, as he took the first sip.

I noticed his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly and I widened my smile. A muscle twitched at his temple. But he didn’t say anything.

He took another sip. And another.

Each swallow looked like pure torture. It was the coffee equivalent of chewing glass.

"Is... is everything to your liking, Mr. Walton?" I asked, my voice pitched just right – helpful and innocent with maybe a touch of sweetness.

He lowered the mug, placing it back on the coaster with deliberate precision.

His amber eyes bore into me and for a brief second, I felt a chill seep into my bones.

Had he seen right through me? Did he know about the extra dark roast, the triple espresso, the forbidden sugar and milk?

"It’s... strong, Miss Miller," he said finally, his voice a low rumble. He paused. "Very strong."

He stared at me for another beat, his gaze intense and probing. I held it, refusing to look away, refusing to flinch. Just a helpful employee delivering coffee. Nothing more.

He picked up the pen lying beside the paper and turned his attention back to the paperwork on his desk. "Thank you. You may leave."

"Certainly, Mr. Walton," I replied, giving him my best ’dutiful assistant’ nod. I turned and walked towards the door, each step measured and calm.

As I reached for the handle, I heard the faint sound of liquid being swallowed. Another sip. He was still drinking it. What a stubborn arrogant fool.

I stepped out and quietly closed the door behind me, leaving him alone with his bitter, sugary, milky espresso concoction, I felt a wave of frustration wash over me.

I didn’t breathe properly until I was back at my desk, the heavy door of his office a solid barrier between us. My palms were sweating. My knees felt weak.

He drank it. He hated it, I could see it on his face, in the tension of his shoulders but he drank it.

What was that? A test? Was he waiting to see if I’d crack? Or did he genuinely think I was just incompetent? The coffee was this bad, and his only comment was that?

He was trying to wear me down with his stoic demeanor, his unsettling lack of visible reaction. He wanted me to second guess myself.

Okay. Maybe this war wasn’t going to be easy. He was a tougher nut to crack than I thought. He had absorbed my first strike without flinching.

But this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. This was just the first skirmish.

I was going to need a new battle plan. And maybe something stronger than weaponized coffee.

Like a strategic placement of itching powder on his expensive suits. Or perhaps filling his office with balloons.

No, no. I needed something more subtle. More sophisticated. Something that would really get under his skin.

I walked back to my desk, already plotting. Mr. Adrien Walton had won the first round by sheer, unadulterated indifference.

But I was just getting started.

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