One Year To Win His Heart

CHAPTER ONE – Debt and Ice

SOFIA

The kettle shrieks like it’s being murdered, but honestly, same.

If I were a kitchen appliance and my sole purpose was to heat water for someone who’s already drowning in debt, I’d probably scream too.

Steam curls in the air. Outside, the city is a pale brur. Morning frost clings to the rooftops and taxis glide past like they have important places to be.

I set the kettle down, it burns my finger, but I numb it out. I turn back to the kitchen counter and stare at the fan of bills that are spread out on it. Rent, electricity, mom's medical payments and a cheery red overdue stamp that winks at me from one envelope as if to say, hey, remember me? I'm the new addition to your debt collection.

It's fine, everything's fine. Says the girl who budget's her life with a salary that barely survives contact with reality.

I rip open the top bill, just to torture myself. I skim through the numbers then shove it under the pile. My mind can't handle it right now. What I can handle, is coffee.

I sip from the mug, ignoring the bitter aftertaste. Coffee isn’t supposed to taste good, it’s supposed to make you functional enough to pretend you’re okay.

Which in my case, I am anything but.

My phone lights up with a text.

MOM: Did you eat? Don’t forget lunch.

I smile faintly, even though my throat feels tight. Mom’s still recovering, and if she knew half of what I was juggling to keep the lights on, she’d worry herself sick, again. So I send back a quick:

ME: Yes. All good.

Translation: No, unless you count this coffee as breakfast, and lunch will be last night’s rice in a plastic container.

My getting ready for work routine is already instilled in my memory. I put on my black slacks, the good ones and my white blouse. I twist my hair into the same low bun because the corporate world loves pretending messy buns are ‘unprofessional.’

I check the mirror before leaving. My eyeliner wing is slightly uneven, and so is my life.

Outside, the air is cold enough to make my eyes water. I walk briskly to the bus stop, watching my breath fog in the air.

I pass Mrs. Galloway from the next building over, who’s taking her Pomeranian for its morning constitutional. The dog’s wearing a sweater that probably cost more than my entire monthly grocery budget.

The bus arrives five minutes late, which is five minutes more than I can afford to waste. I grab a seat near the window and pull out my earbuds. An upbeat playlist does its best to take my mind off the now. It doesn't work but I appreciate the effort.

Stoneleaf Design greets me like it always does: glass-and-steel lobby gleaming under fluorescent lights, the faint scent of expensive perfume and paper. Everyone moves fast, as if the world will end if an email isn’t sent within thirty seconds.

This is my world.

I slide behind my desk in the admin section, dump my bag under the table, and log in. The glow of my monitor makes me feel slightly better, safe even. Numbers don’t judge you. Numbers don’t ask if you’ve paid your rent. And they sure as hell don't speak.

Two hours into the day, my coffee’s gone, my inbox is a war zone, and I’ve already considered faking my own death twice. It would be a good idea, if I didn't have to worry about Mom being called and informed that her daughter died at the office.

The sound of low, conspiratorial voices draws me to the break room.

Two junior analysts are leaning against the counter like they own the place. One’s stirring sugar into her coffee; the other’s scrolling her phone.

“He’s back in town,” Sugar-Stirrer whispers.

“Who?” Phone-Scroller asks without looking up.

“Adrian Vale. You know, the cold billionaire.”

“Ohhh.” Phone-Scroller’s eyes light up. “The iceberg in a suit. I heard he froze out half the board last quarter. Some big shake-up.”

They notice me in the doorway, mid-sip of my refill. The way they straighten up, you’d think I’d caught them plotting a coup. I give them a polite nod, grab the communal milk from the fridge, and retreat before my curiosity shows on my face.

Back at my desk, though, the name lingers like a stray paperclip you can’t find but keep stepping on. Adrian Vale.

It’s the kind of name that belongs on glossy magazine covers. I’ve never met him, but the way they said it—half awe, half fear—makes me picture a man who could ruin you with a phone call and not lose a minute of sleep.

The rest of the day is a blur of emails, print jobs, and pretending to look busy whenever the department head strolls by.

At 5:32, I shut down my computer and slip out before anyone can “just quickly” ask me for one more thing.

The bus ride home is slower, the city smeared in gold and shadow. A man in the back is singing softly to himself and a kid near the front is kicking the seat in front of him like it owes him money.

Normal.

When I get home, the apartment is exactly as I left it: quiet, dim, and smelling faintly of coffee and dust. I drop my bag by the door and collapse onto the couch. The bills are still on the counter, waiting like smug little judges.

I stare at them, but my mind keeps wandering back to the break room.

To the way the analysts lowered their voices, to the faint thrill in their tone.

‘The cold billionaire’.

People like that don’t live in the same world as me. They don’t take buses or ration instant coffee. They own the buildings people like me work in. They sign paychecks that decide whether I can keep my lights on.

And yet… there’s a strange pull in the thought of him. Not admiration exactly, but something sharper. Curiosity, maybe. The dangerous kind.

I should be worrying about how to stretch my paycheck until Friday. Instead, I’m wondering what kind of man earns a reputation like his… and what it would mean if our paths ever crossed.

Spoiler: probably nothing good.

But as I flick off the living room light and head for bed, the name still hums in the back of my mind, stubborn and insistent.

Adrian Vale.