Chapter Text
Penelope was only technically late.
Which, in her dictionary, was better than being actually late. The train had stalled between stations—something about a signal issue, which was really just a traffic equivalent of we forgot we run trains. Her skirt was wrinkled, she hadn’t had coffee, and her phone was buzzing like it wanted to combust.
The building’s revolving doors practically spit her out into the marble lobby of InStep—sleek, stylish, and cruel, like the people who worked in it. Penelope flew past reception with a panicked wave and took the stairs two at a time. Her heart was pounding. She had twenty-seven minutes to set up the conference room for her first solo meeting. Twenty-seven minutes minus the thirteen she was currently late.
When she burst into the glass-walled meeting room on the 17th floor, three things happened in quick succession—she gracelessly tripped over a chair leg, her laptop bag hit the floor with a clang which caused a humiliating echo, and Colin Bridgerton—human glacier in a Tom Ford suit—turned his head.
Penelope scrambled upright and tried to smooth her blouse like that would erase the last ten seconds of pure failure out of existence.
“Sorry—hi, sorry. I had everything prepped last night, just—motorway problems?”
Colin said nothing, simply looked at her, face expressionless, jaw tight. Penelope could feel herself shrinking. It was the kind of glare that told her Colin wasn’t angry, just disappointed, which made it ten times worse.
“Coffee?” Penelope offered, too brightly, holding up two cups like some kind of peace offering.
Colin took his, finally, with the kind of grace that made Penelope wish she’d stayed on the train forever.
The meeting went fine. Objectively. Colin presented. The clients nodded. Penelope took notes, passed papers, tried not to breathe too loudly. But she could feel it the whole time—that look. Like Colin had already filed her under ‘irreparable burden.’
By the time Penelope snuck out of the conference room and back to her desk, she felt like someone had scraped her confidence off with a spoon.
She pulled out her phone and opened the chat thread she definitely shouldn’t still be using—but did anyway.
Penelope:
So. Good news: I didn’t die.
Bad news: My boss definitely wanted me to.
He didn’t even yell, just stared like I’d insulted his ancestors.
Also I tripped. In front of a room full of people.
Kill me.
A minute later, the reply came.
Stranger Danger:
Is this the same boss you’ve described as an Armani-wrapped murder weapon?
Or was that a different Colin?
Penelope huffed a laugh through her nose.
Penelope:
Same Colin.
Today’s look: navy suit, soul-draining judgment, a touch of bergamot.
I might be in love. I also might throw myself out a window. Hard to say.
The typing dots appeared. Then vanished. Then came back.
Stranger Danger:
If you’re still alive at lunch, I expect updates.
And a body count.
Penelope:
Just mine, probably.
Penelope smiled despite herself, then stuffed the phone away as Colin walked by—silent and composed—terrifying like a ghost wandering to destroy mere mortals.
Penelope’s smile vanished.
Yep. Just her.
-
The day after, Penelope was late. Again.
“Sorry!” She burst through the conference room door like a woman crashing her own funeral. “Sorry, sorry. I’m here! I’m—” She skidded to a stop. “Ready.”
Twelve sharply dressed people turned to stare at her. Colin didn’t. He just took one, slow, deliberate sip from his black coffee like he was imagining it was poison he could hurl at Penelope instead.
“Miss. Featherington,” Colin said, all cool confidence and voice like cut granite, “the meeting began at nine.”
“It’s—” Penelope checked her phone. “Nine-oh-nine. Technically.”
A pure, unflinching silence descended on the room.
Colin set down his coffee. Folded his hands.
“Sit down,” he said. “Before you combust from your own enthusiasm.”
Penelope sat. And proceeded to fumble through the meeting like a baby deer trying to pitch a marketing strategy. The meeting was supposed to be simple: one rebranding proposal, one mood board, a tagline, and a ten-minute pitch. She’d practiced in front of the mirror, in front of her neighbour’s dog, and even in the elevator ride up.
It had gone better with the dog.
By the time she finished, Colin had approximately one eyebrow arched, and sounded so judgemental Penelope found herself melting like ice cream left under afternoon sun.
“Thank you, Penelope. That was… enlightening.”
The meeting ended five minutes early.
Penelope picked up her phone.
Penelope:
I swear to GOD he glares like he invented disappointment.
I was NINE minutes late. Nine! That's not even double digits!
Stranger Danger:
What did he do, smite you with a PowerPoint presentation?
Penelope:
Emotionally? Yes.
Stranger Danger:
Brutal. You okay?
Penelope:
Define okay.
I want to melt into my couch and become a sentient blanket.
Also? Why is he so ATTRACTIVE when he’s mad?? It’s unfair. I’m being bullied and seduced. By the same man.
Help!!
Stranger Danger:
That’s a workplace hazard, my friend.
Penelope groaned into her palm. Why was the only person who understood her was a faceless stranger she accidentally texted three weeks ago?
Her phone buzzed again.
Stranger Danger
Want me to slash his tyres? I’m very stealthy.
(I’m not. But I’m loyal.)
Penelope smiled despite herself.
Penelope:
Tempting.
Though I’ll settle for you telling me I’m not a complete disaster.
Stranger Danger
You’re not a complete disaster.
Just… a mildly flaming one. In a charming way.
Penelope stared at that last message a little too long.
She was still thinking about it when she finally got a much-needed snack break.
And to her surprise, Colin’s glower faded just enough to be replaced by something warmer.
Someone warmer.
-
Later that night, Penelope sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment, laptop open, half-eaten sandwich beside her, and an ice pack pressed to her forehead like a melodramatic winter widow.
She wasn’t technically injured. She just needed something cool to hold while she replayed today’s disasters on loop.
Her phone buzzed.
Stranger Danger:
You still alive? Or did your terrifying boss vaporise you?
Penelope smiled. It was stupid, how quickly she’d started looking forward to those texts. The guy didn’t have a name—just helpful comments and the kind of dry humour Penelope had learned to appreciate.
Penelope:
Barely.
he said my pitch was enlightening.
that’s definitely code for you’re a walking trainwreck and I regret hiring you.
Stranger Danger:
Wow. Harsh.
But hey, if you look at it from a rational angle, enlightening is practically a compliment.
Penelope snorted. She typed, paused, deleted. Then typed again.
Penelope:
You ever met someone who is… objectively awful? Like, a robot in human skin?
But also???
Weirdly hot???
She tossed the phone onto the couch like it had burned her.
It buzzed two seconds later.
Stranger Danger:
...You want to unpack that?
Sounds like there’s a story there.
Penelope groaned and rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling like it owed her answers.
Penelope:
Okay. You know what. Yes.
Colin. Colin Bridgerton. He’s definitely that. A robot.
Satan in a three-piece suit.
he's cold. he's rude. he doesn't walk, he stalks like some kind of predatory jungle cat in Italian leather.
And he’s SO GOOD LOOKING it’s physically offensive.
Like if someone made a perfume ad angry.
There wasn’t a reply for a long time. Penelope wondered if she’d said something offensive.
But then—
Stranger Danger:
A perfume ad but make it furious. Got it. Continue.
Penelope:
I hate him.
I do.
But sometimes he looks at me and I forget what words are.
And I think he knows it. The man weaponizes eye contact.
Stranger Danger:
Sounds like you’re in a classic enemies-to-unrequited-crush situation.
Dangerous territory.
Penelope:
You don’t understand.
he raised one eyebrow at me today and I almost apologised for existing.
WHO has eyebrow power like that??
Stranger Danger:
Just this Colin guy, apparently.
You should start wearing sunglasses to work.
Penelope laughed, loud enough to startle her poor cat in the window. She rubbed her eyes, still grinning.
Penelope:
You’re a menace.
But a helpful one.
Thanks for listening to all this. I know I kinda... overshare.
Stranger Danger:
You don’t.
I like hearing about your day. Even the catastrophic parts.
Especially those, actually.
Penelope blinked at the screen. Her stomach did a weird little flip.
She didn’t answer right away.
-
Penelope:
Okay. You know what. Yes.
Colin. Colin Bridgerton. he’s definitely that. A robot.
Satan in a three-piece suit.
he's cold. he's rude. he doesn't walk, he stalks like some kind of predatory jungle cat in Italian leather.
And he’s SO GOOD LOOKING it’s physically offensive.
Like if someone made a perfume ad angry.
Colin stared at the messages, trying not to spontaneously combust on the spot. He was at his desk well past nine, the office was dark except for the dim amber glow of his desk lamp. The building had emptied out hours ago. Most of the sane ones had gone home. But sanity had never really been his brand.
He blinked. Then blinked again. Then slowly, very slowly, picked up his phone.
He scrolled up.
And kept scrolling.
Each message hit like a slow-burning slap. Rants. Jokes. Exhausted 2AM monologues. A barrage of emojis that made him mildly nauseous. And in the middle of it all—his name. Colin. Repeated. Often.
Penelope had been texting him. For weeks. By mistake.
Or more like, Colin had been texting his clumsy, beautiful assistant. For weeks.
Fucking weeks.
It took him a full minute to realise what must’ve happened. One wrong digit. A mis-saved contact. And suddenly, Colin was the anonymous emotional dumping ground for his own assistant.
And not just dumping. Complaining. Flirting, vaguely.
Calling him Satan.
Colin set the phone down with the kind of care one might use when handling an unstable explosive.
Then he leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling, and let out the softest, sharpest laugh.
It felt... unprofessional. But then, this entire situation was a masterclass in inappropriate. He should stop it. Immediately. Correct the misunderstanding. Put an end to the accidental intimacy.
Instead, he sent back something vague.
Penelope kept replying.
It was the most recent message that gave him pause.
Penelope:
He raised one eyebrow at me today and I almost apologised for existing.
WHO has eyebrow power like that??
Colin arched an eyebrow on instinct.
Then, to his horror, smiled.
This was bad. He should say something. He really should. He didn’t. Instead, he turned off the lamp, slipped the phone into his pocket, and walked out of the office with Penelope’s words still echoing in his head.
Weirdly hot.
Physically offensive.
A walking perfume ad.
Angry.
Colin didn’t know what to make of it.
But he knew one thing for sure:
Tomorrow was going to be interesting.