The Enemy's Heiress

Elena

It was late at night, way past working hours, and the bar was still bustling with energy, laughter, and the usual clinking of glasses. I balanced a tray filled with drinks, my shift almost over, but the fatigue from juggling multiple jobs was clinging to me like an unwelcome guest. I plastered on a polite smile to mask the exhaustion, my ponytail swinging behind me as I made my way to the crowded corner booth where a group of sharply dressed businessmen laughed and toasted their success.

“Here you are, gentlemen,” I said with a practiced smile, lowering the tray and placing each glass in front of them with deliberate care. The bar was alive with noise—laughter, shouts, the clinking of bottles—and I had learned long ago to move like a shadow through the chaos. Just as I straightened and took a step back, one of the men swung his arm wide in careless animation, his elbow grazing the rim of a whiskey glass. The drink wobbled precariously, amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the edge, a heartbeat away from spilling across the polished wood.

“Watch it!” The sharp bark of another man cut through the din, the irritation in his voice carrying louder than the surrounding chatter.

I startled, turning toward the voice. My eyes locked on the owner, and my breath hitched. He was tall, imposing—and infuriatingly good-looking. His well-tailored suit fit with ruthless precision, his dark hair slicked back, and his piercing grey eyes boring into me with such intensity that my stomach twisted.

I recognized him instantly—who wouldn’t?

Alexander Harrington. Everyone in New York City knew him. The notoriously arrogant CEO whose face graced every damned business magazine in the city. And yes, the rumors were true—he was a beauty to behold. But the way he was glaring at me made it clear I hadn’t caught him in his best mood.

My tray slipped in my hand as I stepped back, and before I could stop it, a glass of red wine tipped over and spilled straight onto Alexander’s pristine white shirt. To my horror, the deep stain spread across the fabric like blood on snow.

Crap.

Holy crap.

“Oh no,” I gasped, fumbling for a napkin. “I’m so sorry—”

“Sorry?” His voice was icy, the word growled out over the noise of the bar. He rose to his feet, towering over me as he looked down at his ruined shirt, brushing at the stain with disdain. “Do you even know what this shirt costs? Careless, clumsy, and lazy—exactly what I’d expect from someone working here.”

I guessed he must have had a terrible day at work, but that didn’t excuse him.

My cheeks burned as nearby tables turned to stare. The napkin trembled in my clenched hands as humiliation pressed down on me.

“I said I’m sorry,” I managed, forcing the words out even though my throat felt tight. My voice trembled but didn’t break, holding on to the last thread of composure I had left. My cheeks still burned crimson from embarrassment, the heat crawling all the way to my ears. But Alexander didn’t care—not about my apology, not about my humiliation, not about the fact that every pair of eyes in the bar seemed to be pressing down on me like a weight.

He leaned back in his seat, lips curving into a laugh so cold it made my stomach twist. There was no warmth in the sound, no forgiveness—just mockery.

“An accident?” he repeated, savoring the word as though it were an insult. His gaze swept over me, sharp and unrelenting. “That’s the kind of excuse someone gives when they don’t take their job seriously.”

I swallowed hard, gripping my tray tighter against my chest.

“If you can’t even manage the simple task of carrying a drink without making a mess,” Alexander continued, his voice silk wrapped around steel, “then perhaps you’re in the wrong profession entirely.” He let the words linger, each syllable dripping with disdain. Then, almost as an afterthought—yet loud enough to slice through my fragile pride—he muttered, “Why bother working at all, if you don’t even have the zeal for it?”

The sting of his words pierced through me like shards of glass.

I clenched my fists tightly, fury rising beneath my humiliation, threatening to spill over just like the wine I had spilled on him.

Who the hell was he to talk to me like that? I didn’t care if he was the president’s son.

“Look,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “I’ve apologized, and I’m trying to fix the situation. Maybe you could show a little decency instead of acting like the world owes you something.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. I had touched a nerve.

No one spoke to Alexander Harrington that way. He was supposed to be bothered, but he was too enraged to settle.

“Decency? From someone who clearly has no concept of professionalism? Spare me your lectures,” he shot back sarcastically.

The hell?

Before I could retort, my manager appeared, stepping between us with an apologetic smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Mr. Harrington, I deeply apologize for this inconvenience,” he said quickly, throwing me a sharp warning glare. “I assure you, this will not happen again.”

Alexander eyed me with triumph gleaming in his gaze.

“See that it doesn’t,” he said coldly. “And get someone competent to clean this mess.” His tone dripped with ownership, like he ran the place.

I couldn’t stop myself—I scoffed.

He caught it, and so did my manager.

“Take a break. Now,” my manager ordered, his voice tight.

My fists clenched at my sides as I bit back the scathing retort burning on my tongue. Spinning on my heel, I walked briskly to the back of the bar, my heart pounding with humiliation and fury.

In the break room, I leaned against the counter, trying to steady my breathing. All I wanted was to march back out there and give Alexander Harrington a piece of my mind. But I knew if I caused a scene, my manager would fire me on the spot.

Who did he think he was, anyway?

“Arrogant jerk,” I muttered, scrubbing at my eyes. “He thinks he owns the world.”

Because he was some CEO, he thought he could be arrogant to whoever he wanted? I cursed under my breath, picturing all the ugly things I’d love to do to him.

Maybe his pretty face would be unrecognizable by the time I was done.

And to think, I had actually considered him handsome.

I rolled my eyes and punched the wall in frustration.