Olivia’s POV
I stood at the counter of Taylor’s Cafe, feeling like I was trapped in so kind of nightmare.
"Raw sugar?" The barista blinked at slowly. "Like... sugar that’s... raw?"
"Yes," I said through gritted teeth, my patience already wearing thin from frustration and the pile of work waiting for in the office. "Raw sugar. Unrefined. Organic. Natural. However you want to describe it."
He scratched his head, looking perplexed. "We’ve got white sugar, brown sugar, and those little pink packets..."
Of course they don’t have raw sugar. I could practically feel Maxwell’s smugness radiating from the office from across the street. He definitely knew Taylor’s wouldn’t have it. This was just another one of his sches to make my life miserable.
"Do you know where I might find raw sugar?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain calm despite wanting to scream.
The barista shrugged. "Maybe try the organic market? That place has all the fancy health food stuff, but it’s very far from here."
Of course it’ll be very far from here. Maxwell had probably used my eight minutes lateness to carry out his research.
The Barista gave directions to the Organic market, and all I could do was stare at the piece of paper. The place was at least a fifteen-minute walk from here, which ant thirty minutes round trip, plus however long it took to actually find the sugar and get back to Taylor’s for the coffee. Maxwell would probably be timing with a stopwatch.
"Perfect," I muttered, already turning toward the door. "Just perfect."
The organic market turned out to be one of those trendy, overpriced places where everything was locally sourced and sustainably harvested and cost three tis what it should. The kind of place where people paid twelve dollars for a jar of artisanal honey and felt good about themselves for saving the planet.
I found myself wandering through aisles lined with quinoa and kale chips, feeling desperate as I searched for raw sugar. Every minute that passed reminded that Maxwell was probably sitting in his office, checking his watch and preparing another lecture about punctuality and competence.
"Excuse ," I finally asked a store employee. "Do you have raw sugar?"
She looked up at the sound of my voice. "Oh, absolutely! We have several varieties. Turbinado, derara, muscovado, coconut palm sugar..."
Multiple varieties? Of course there are multiple varieties.
"I just need regular raw sugar," I said weakly. "For coffee."
She led to an entire aisle ant for sweeteners, and I stared at the overwhelming array of options. Different brands, different countries of origin, different levels of processing. How was I supposed to know which one Maxwell preferred?
He probably has very specific opinions about his raw sugar, I thought grimly. Knowing him, he’ll be able to taste the difference between Mauritius and Guatemala turbinado.
Finally, I grabbed six different packages. If I was going to make this journey, I might as well ensure I never had to make it again. Maxwell clearly intended to live on coffee for the rest of the day, and I refused to be sent on another sugar quest.
The total ca to thirty-three dollars, which felt like highway robbery for what was essentially fancy dirt, but I handed over my credit card with resignation. Maxwell will have to reimburse . I cannot go bankrupt on my first week.
By the ti I got back to Taylor’s, I was sweating, exhausted, and running twenty minutes behind schedule. The sa barista was still at the counter, looking at like I’d returned from a quest to find the Holy Grail.
"I got the raw sugar," I announced breathlessly, dumping the packages on the counter. "All of them."
His eyes widened. "All of them?"
"Please make the coffee exactly as I specified earlier," I said, then pushed all of the packages toward him. "And keep these. For future raw sugar ergencies. Guard them with your life. Hide them sowhere safe. Don’t let anyone else use them unless they’re ordering for Maxwell Wellington."
The barista nodded. "Sure thing. I’ll... I’ll put them in the back."
"Thank you," I said with gratitude, "you’re doing God’s work."
When I finally got back to the office, coffee in hand and completely out of breath, Maxwell looked up from his desk.
"Forty-seven minutes," he said, glancing at his watch. "For a simple coffee run. I hope the journey was worth it Mr. Hopton."
*You ssed up soul.*
"Here’s your coffee, sir," I said, placing the cup carefully on his desk - far away from any important docunts this ti. "Made with raw turbinado sugar, exactly as requested."
Maxwell took a sip, briefly testing it. "Hmm. Acceptable. Though next ti, I prefer the derara variety. It has better caral taste."
DERARA. Of course. Of course he preferred derara. And of course he waited until now to ntion it.
"I’ll make a note of that, sir," I said with forced pleasantness, backing away from his desk before I did sothing I’d regret.
For the next few hours, I threw myself into recreating the coffee-soaked files first, like a crazy assistant going to war. I cross-referenced tilines, reorganized witness statents, and rebuilt evidence charts carefully, determined to prove that Maxwell’s little coffee tantrum hadn’t actually set anything back by "days." Since I’d done it before, the second ti was easier and faster.
I was just finishing the last docunt when Maxwell’s voice cut through my concentration.
"Mr. Hopton."
I looked up to find him standing beside his desk, shrugging on his suit jacket with difficulty. His injured arm was making it look awkward and painful-looking, but I didn’t care if he was going through hell or pain.
"Yes, sir?"
"I’m going ho," he announced. "Pack my belongings into my briefcase and carry it to the car."
I blinked at him. "You’re... leaving? But it’s only 4 PM."
"Thank you for the ti check, Mr. Hopton. I’m quite capable of reading a clock." Maxwell’s tone was arctic. "My briefcase is by the door. Pack my files, my laptop, and anything else that looks important. Then et at the elevator."
"Of course, sir," I said, forcing myself to sound professional.
The elevator ride down to the parking garage was painfully awkward. Maxwell stood beside in silence, radiating an aura of controlled irritation, while I clutched his heavy briefcase and tried to ignore the way the small space seed to amplify his presence.
Don’t look at him, I told myself. Don’t care about where he’s going to. Don’t wonder why he slept at the office. Don’t care about anything other than getting through this elevator ride without embarrassing yourself further.
The silence continued between us, and I found myself counting the floors internally - twenty, eighteen, fifteen - anything to distract myself from the fact that we were both trapped in a tiny tal box together.
Twelve, eleven, ten...
That’s when my phone started ringing.
The sound was so loud in the quiet elevator that I had to fumble in my pocket, trying to silence the call quickly, but not before the caller ID flashed across the screen.
David - TrueCaller
What? Why the fuck was my bastard of an ex calling ?
I quickly pressed the decline button, but the phone imdiately started ringing again.
David - TrueCaller
What the hell?
"Answer it," Maxwell said suddenly, his voice cutting through my panic.
I looked up at him in horror. "Sir?"
"Your phone," he said impatiently. "Answer it. The ringing is giving a headache."
"Oh no, that’s not necessary," I said quickly, declining the call again and shoving my phone deeper into my pocket. "It’s probably just a spam call. I’ll deal with it later."
But the phone rang again imdiately.
David - TrueCaller
Why won’t he stop calling?
"Mr. Hopton," Maxwell’s voice held a warning edge. "Answer the goddamn phone!"
"Sir, I really don’t think..."
Ring ring ring.
*Shit! I’m dood.*
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