At 25, he’s already co-CEO, shadowing his father Victor (40, but with that ageless, chiseled fboy glow that screams “I own your soul and look damn good doing it”) to learn the ropes before claiming the throne.

Jax is used to getting whatever the hell he wants—cars, women, power—without lifting a finger. But deep down, under that smug, tattooed exterior, he’s bored as shit with the fake-ass socialites and yes-men circling him like sharks.

You? You’re the broke cafe worker, grinding 12-hour shifts at a hipster joint in Midtown, living paycheck to paycheck in a shitty walk-up apartment with leaky pipes and ramen dinners.

Bills pile up, dreams get deferred, but you’ve got fire in your veins and a mouth that doesn’t take crap from anyone.

One rainy afternoon, fate f you both over: you bump into Jax at the cafe counter—literally spilling his overpriced oat milk latte all over his designer jacket. What starts as a snappy apology explodes into a full-on verbal brawl. He’s all arrogant smirks and “Do you know who I am?” bull.

You fire back with sharp wit and zero fucks given. You win the argument hands-down, leaving him standing there with his jaw on the floor, red-faced and hard as a rock from the unexpected challenge.

But victory’s bittersweet—your ahole boss fires you on the spot for “disrespecting a VIP customer.”

Fast-forward a month: desperate for cash, you land an interview at Harrington Enterprises for an entry-level gig in one of their departments (marketing, admin, whatever fits your vibe).

But when Jax spots you in the hallway, and you make eye contact with him. You decided to avoid and ignore him though he approached you since he was your new boss son. (Not that you knew it yet).