Seven-thirty.

The hands of the cheap wall-clock sent a sharp jab of panic through Cixi’s chest — Miranda would rap her knuckles raw if she slipped in after eight thirty.

Cassian noticed the flick of her eyes and followed it to the clock before he spoke without moving from the sofa.

"Phone your manager. Tell her you will arrive when I am finished with you."

"As if you are the country president, and she will understand and keep every policy aside because I am with you." Cixi could not understand how important he thought he was.

"Show her my picture, and she will probably overlook anything, even murder."

Cixi shut her eyes and chose not to respond, recognising that it was futile when there was a greater narcissist directly in front of her. "How long will you need?"

He answered by unfolding his long body from the seat. The morning light poured over him, turning the cut of his suit to charcoal and silver.

The small apartment seemed to shrink when he stood up. A blade-tall silhouette slid across her bare calves, and heat pinched the base of her throat.

He crossed to the kitchenette with an unhurried stride, and a flicker of irritation marred Cixi’s face. He was treating her apartment as his own.

On the counter, he filled the kettle with water, switched it on, and opened a cupboard.

He took down a single mug that was coated with bright enamel and painted with a black cat chasing its tail around the rim.

In Cassian Crown’s hand, the thing looked absurdly innocent. He set the cup upon the counter, and from the next shelf, he withdrew a sachet of instant coffee. It appeared that he had already charted out everything in Cixi’s apartment. Was this what he spent the entire night or morning doing? A thought crossed her mind.

He glanced down at the packet, then, instead of taking a pair of scissors that lay beside the breadbox, he ignored them. His jaw flexed as he bit the packet, tearing the foil with a neat snap of sharp canines.

Cixi’s pulse kicked as she looked at his canines for the first time, which looked astonishingly beautiful.

What was the matter with this man, Cixi pondered. Why did he possess both handsomeness and beauty simultaneously? Why did everything about him seem so captivating and flawless? The way he sat, moved, and gestured with his fingers, lips, and eyes was undeniably seductive.

Those teeth looked halfway between aristocrat and predator. If he had claimed centuries of nocturnal hunting, she might have nodded and poured him blood type O—because whatever he was, ’ordinary’ did not fit.

She mentally slapped herself to get hold of herself and swallowed hard and continued staring, noticing details she should perhaps not have noticed at all. She had even forgotten, for a moment, that she needed to call her manager.

Cassian emptied the powdered coffee into the cup.

The kettle began to hiss. He lifted the kettle with one hand and poured it in.

Steam rose at once, curling softly upward between his long, strong fingers. Then he took the sugar kept beside the kettle, spooned in one measured portion, and stirred the contents.

Only when he turned back towards the sofa did Cixi realise he had made but one cup, forgetting her.

How rude....

He returned and sat down, and with the same composed creature he had been before, though now with the coffee in his hand. He extended the cup. "Drink."

Cixi looked at the cup.

Then at him.

"For me?"

"Obviously."

She stared harder at Cassian and then at the cup.

He made coffee for her?

Was this the treatment one got when someone was obsessed with you?

On second thought, she did not know whether he was mocking her.

Seeing her surprised expression, Cassian asked. "How badly did you think of me, and yet you still..." He paused, then frowned at her. "... claim you like me! Or was it my handsome face and perfect body you got attracted to?"

Cixi immediately opened her mouth, compelled to respond to him. "Having feelings for you is not the same as hoping for anything in return—I never claimed to expect much from you."

One of Cassian’s brows lifted with elegant disbelief. "Very well," he said. "I shall pour this down the sink, and you may go make yourself another."

Cixi’s eyes widened. "Why do you always threaten me with throwing away food or drink? You could just drink it yourself instead of declaring you will throw it out." She looked at him with all the stern disapproval of a woman reprimanding a very expensive and badly behaved child.

"I have enough money to do so," he lavishly responded, "not to grieve over waste."

Cixi rolled her eyes so openly that even he could not fail to see it.

"Second," he went on, glancing down at the cup in his hand with cold judgment, "this is not coffee. It is a brown substance that has been taught to imitate coffee."

"I saw you this morning drinking it," Cixi protested. How dare he call her favourite coffee not a coffee? "So do not lie to me and say it tastes bad. It does not!"

Cassian gave her a look of quiet offence. "I tried it, and one word hit my brain that was horrible, unpleasant, sickening powder," and then he sighed elegantly. "At the first sip, I wished to throw the cup and its contents against this crappy wall. Then I decided perhaps I had judged too quickly. So I took a second sip. That made me wish to sue the company responsible for producing it."

"You shouldn’t have drunk it!" Cixi almost yelled at him, and he ignored her yapping.

"By the third sip, I had advanced to wanting every mind behind this horrific veil recipe removed from the earth entirely." He paused and looked at Cixi from head to toe in amusement. "This is your choice? And you work in a cafe...? How many customers did you scare away with the options you recommended?"

Cixi could scarcely believe him. "It is not bad." She drew herself up. "If you disliked it so much, why did you continue drinking it? You could simply have set it aside."

Cassian looked into the cup, then at her. "Because by the fourth sip," he said, his tone acquiring that silky wickedness she had come to dread, "I happened to see you without clothes, and suddenly the coffee improved considerably."

Cixi froze, and he did not blink. "So," he continued, "if you truly want me to give this brew a second chance, distract me again by undressing yourself."

For a second, Cixi could find no words at all before cursing him. "I hope every cup you drink tastes like poison."

"Then I shall think of your bare body whenever I taste poison. A sentimental solution indeed."

"Narcissistic lunatic!"

"Precise hedonist."

Cixi stared at him in utter disbelief. "Narcissist," she declared. "That is what you are. A crazy Narcissist."

Before Cassian could answer, the bell rang, and both of them turned their heads.

Cixi stood at once and went to the door. She looked through the peephole and found Mark standing outside with a briefcase in hand.

Without delay, she unlocked the door and opened it.

Mark remained where he was.

He did not step inside.

Cixi looked back over her shoulder at Cassian with a questioning expression.

"Take the briefcase from him and close the door," Cassian said.

Since no better explanation seemed forthcoming, Cixi did exactly that. She took the briefcase from Mark, who relinquished it with his usual expressionless obedience, and then shut the door behind him.

When she turned back, she found Cassian once again extending the coffee towards her with his free hand.

Cixi stood still for a brief second, briefcase in one hand, coffee waiting in the other, and thought that no man in the world should be permitted to look this composed while behaving this strangely.

Then, with visible reluctance, she walked back to the sofa. She took the cup from him and handed him the briefcase in exchange.

Only after that did she sit beside him.

Not too near. She made certain of that.

She placed a proper distance between them, enough to preserve her dignity, enough to let him know she had not forgotten his offences, yet not so much that he might accuse her of childish dramatics.

Coffee in hand, she sat upright and looked ahead with all the composure she could muster.

The warmth of the cup settled into her palms. The smell of it rose gently. Beside her, Cassian set the briefcase upon his knee and opened it with long fingers, while sunlight continued to spill through the room, touching the sofa, the table, and the side of his face.

And Cixi, despite her irritation, could not help thinking that the entire early morning had become absurd beyond repair.

One moment, she was late for work.

The next, she sat in her own living room, drinking coffee made by a missing man who spoke of contracts, coffee, and nakedness with the same arrogance, while his bodyguard delivered briefcases to her door as though this were the most ordinary arrangement in the world.