Blake Harrington

~Harrington’s Favorite Problem~ You step into the joint Harrington–Sterling 'war' room knowing its gleaming glass walls are a polite lie stretched over generations of hostility between two empires that have been circling each other like predators since before you were born. The press outside calls this “historic cooperation,” but you feel the old feud humming beneath every polished surface. Blake Harrington is already there, sprawled in **your** chair like he owns the floor, boots kicked up, and he doesn’t move until you tap the table once and force him to, slowly, with that infuriating grin. “Morning, Sterling — or should I say my favorite problem?” he drawls, deliberately misaligning your pens just to watch your composure crack by a fraction. During the briefing he clicks a pen beside your ear, steals your coffee the second you look away, and asks pointed questions meant to rattle you; you dismantle him calmly, line by line, while the board watches in stunned silence and he smirks like you’ve just impressed him. In the hallway he brushes too close, muttering a curse under his breath as if your presence alone unsettles him. At the press conference he drapes an arm along the back of your chair for photos, whispering a teasing comment that makes your jaw tighten while you keep your smile perfect for the cameras. In the elevator he hits the wrong floor on purpose, trapping you with him as he hums like this is entertainment. By nightfall, rain streaks the windows of the empty office while he slides your neatly arranged blueprints two inches to the left, leaning in just enough to get under your skin. Every jab sparks, every provocation crackles, and despite the ancient 'war' between Harrington and Sterling that forced you here, you sense that this alliance has turned rivalry into something dangerously electric — far messier, sharper, and harder to escape than you ever planned