20 | ☕Atlass Invasion ☕
Anya was suffering.
Because Atlas Valtieri—CEO, billionaire, and a walking embodiment of frustration—was currently making himself comfortable in her apartment like he owned the place.
He wasn't just standing around awkwardly, waiting for her to kick him out like a normal person would after showing up unannounced at nearly midnight.
No. He had the audacity to settle in, rolling up his expensive sleeves, unpacking takeout onto her tiny dining table with the ease that suggested this was some kind of planned dinner date instead of an intrusion.
She stood a few feet away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her sleeves as if she could crush the rising tension beneath her skin.
She was staring at him, but her mind was already elsewhere, wishing—praying—that she could simply wish him out of existence.
The ache in her temples pulsed with every beat of her heart, a steady throb that matched the rhythm of her fraying patience.
It was all she could do to keep her feet planted firmly on the ground, to stop herself from storming forward and shoving him through the door with her bare hands.
She had spent the entire day away from the world, cocooned in her apartment, the quiet that filled her like a deep breath after holding it for far too long.
She'd lit candles, brewed tea, read books she hadn't touched in months, and revelled in the absence of noise, of demands.
For once, there were no calls, no Atlas barging into her space like a bull in a China shop, making her heart beat faster with every word he said.
She'd taken that precious time and wrapped herself in it like a shield—only for him to come crashing through her door like some cosmic joke.
The nerve of him. The audacity.
Her eye twitched, the muscle spasming uncontrollably as she bit back a seething remark. Her jaw clenched, but she forced the words to stay locked behind her teeth, trying to keep her anger from boiling over. She'd had enough of this. Enough of him.
"Do you even hear yourself?" she finally spat, voice low and dangerously controlled, a stark contrast to the boiling frustration that churned inside her.
The words slid out like ice, sharp and cutting, but she was careful—too careful not to let him see just how close she was to snapping. "Do you realize how insane you sound?"
Atlas didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
Instead, he lifted his chin slightly, his gaze locking with hers in a way that made her stomach tighten, like a predator sizing up its prey.
His eyes—those damned dark eyes, unreadable and cold as metal—held a glimmer, an almost imperceptible flicker of something that looked a little too much like amusement for her liking.
And then, with the nonchalance of someone offering a polite response to a trivial question, he lifted both hands and signed the simple words that made her entire world tilt on its axis.
Anya's fingers twitched at her sides. Her body was practically vibrating with the urge to do something—anything—to snap.
"That's your excuse?" she asked, her voice creeping up an octave as if she'd just heard the worst plot twist in a soap opera.
She was this close to breaking into dramatic, over-the-top gestures, but she fought it back. Barely.
He exhaled loudly, like the sound was his personal version of dramatic punctuation.
Then he raised his hands, all slow and methodical, like he had all the time in the world to give her a lesson in Atlas Logic 101.
His fingers moved like he was explaining something to a small child—or someone who clearly should have known better, like Anya.
Anya's eye twitched. She almost laughed, but she was still too angry to find the humour in it.
"A fact?" she repeated, blinking twice as if she couldn't possibly process the ridiculousness. "You're seriously telling me this is just a fact? That's your logic? I took a day off, and that's a problem?"
He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with that infuriating mixture of amusement and complete indifference. It was as if he thought she was the one being unreasonable for not seeing the problem with his fact. He had all the charm of a rock. A very smug rock.
Anya stared at him for a long moment, her brain desperately trying to catch up with the absurdity of it all.
"You know what?" she said, finally cracking.
"I think I'm gonna start doing the same thing. Next time I'm annoyed by something, I'm just gonna show up at your place at 3 AM and be like, 'Oh, it's not an excuse, Atlas. It's a fact that I'm here to ruin your day. Deal with it.'"
She threw up her hands in mock resignation. "You'll love it, I'm sure. Just a fact of life."
Atlas lifted a single brow, his expression the epitome of unimpressed. Anya might as well have been yelling at a brick wall for all the reaction she was getting.
Her hands dropped to her sides, a mix of exasperation and the overwhelming urge to strangle him coursing through her. Deep breaths, she reminded herself, like a meditation guru in the middle of a terrible day.
"I don't need your approval to take time off," she snapped, her voice betraying the edge of frustration that was quickly taking over.
Atlas didn't so much as blink.
Anya blinked. She stared at him, her mouth hanging open as her brain struggled to catch up with the absurdity of his statement. Did he just say... what?
She blinked again. Slowly.
"That's still not my problem!" she all but screamed, flinging her arms out wide as though the universe itself should take pity on her.
Atlas, undeterred by the full force of her frustration, calmly turned his attention back to the takeout containers on her counter.
He lifted one with the air of a man who had all the time in the world to consider whether he wanted spring rolls or dumplings.
He studied the label with a thoughtful expression, like he was deciding whether he cared enough to even open it.
And then, as if she weren't about to have a full-on meltdown in front of him, he signed, still not looking at her, his fingers moving with maddening ease.
Atlas, having apparently decided that her breakdown was an amusing distraction from his food choices, nodded sagely, as if he were imparting some great cosmic wisdom.
This man. This infuriating, smug, boundary-free human was completely immune to her frustration, and it only made her want to scream even louder.
"Atlas," she said, clenching her fists at her sides to hold on to some semblance of control, "You can't just waltz in here, interrupt my life, and then act like your opinion matters more than my sanity!"
He took a bite of what appeared to be an egg roll, savouring it with the satisfaction of a man who had just won an argument he hadn't even tried to fight.
His eyes twinkled, the bastard. "I don't need your permission to be here either," he signed, his hands moving in an almost lazy fashion. "We both have our issues."
Anya stared at him, utterly defeated for a moment, before she threw her hands up in the air. "This is ridiculous! This is utterly ridiculous. You're a walking disaster, and I—"
Anya's body snapped straight, as if someone had just pulled the string of a marionette. "Excuse me?" she asked, her voice rising in pitch, the disbelief practically vibrating in her words.
Atlas finally looked back at her, but there was no apology in his eyes—only that maddening calm.
It was as if the argument was already over, and he had won, and she just hadn't gotten the memo yet.
He didn't look ruffled, didn't seem remotely concerned by the storm of frustration she was practically throwing at him.
His hands moved fluidly, as though he were practicing a slow dance, and his expression was as unreadable as ever.
Anya just stared at him. Her jaw hung open, like she'd forgotten how to function. She blinked a few times, trying to get her brain to catch up with the sheer audacity of his words. Fix that?
She shook her head, hoping that by doing so, her brain might suddenly start making sense of the situation.
"Fix that?" she echoed, her voice a little too high for comfort, the shock and exasperation practically dripping from her every word.
"Fix—Atlas, I am not your broken schedule that you can just rearrange when it bothers you!"
He exhaled sharply, as if he'd been forced to explain the most obvious thing in the world. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly more annoyed by her reaction than by the logic of his statement, before signing again, each movement deliberate, like he was lecturing her.
Her eye twitched. "I am going to strangle you," she muttered under her breath, her hands curling into fists, nails digging into her palms.
Atlas, of course, smirked. A real, obnoxious, knowing smirk. The smirk that made her feel like he was daring her to actually do it.
His smirk deepened, almost stretching wide enough to be a grin. He didn't flinch, didn't step back—he just stood there, arms crossed, completely unbothered by the storm of fury brewing in front of him.
Then, just when she thought her brain might explode, his hands moved again, deliberate, confident, like he was in no rush at all. Every gesture was a careful, perfect choreography that only served to make her even more annoyed.
Anya froze, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He was impossible. Absolutely impossible.
"Why do I put up with you?" she muttered, half to herself, her hands still twitching at her sides, like they were ready to throw a punch and then immediately retract it because, well, she didn't know what was worse: actually hurting him,
or giving him the satisfaction of knowing he got under her skin.
Atlas raised an eyebrow, his smirk never faltering. "Because," he signed casually, "you love the challenge."
Oh, she hated him.
(She didn't actually hate him.)
(But she wanted to.)