Sunlight knifed through the curtains. I groaned, burying my face in the pillow.
First day as Augustus Evans's assistant.
My stomach twisted.
You can do this. You've survived worse.
Had I, though?
Yes. Remember Milan. Remember pitching to those investors who barely spoke English. You didn't flinch then.
That was different. That mattered.
And this doesn't?
I threw off the covers.
Fine.
If I had to report to Ever Holdings, I'd do it my way.
The closet beckoned—a sanctuary of silk and wool and carefully curated confidence. I bypassed the safe choices, the muted tones Mother always pushed.
No.
Today required armor.
I pulled out the Armani suit—charcoal gray, tailored within an inch of its life, cut to accentuate curves while screaming competence.
Paired it with a cream blouse, buttons fastened just high enough to say professional, low enough to remind everyone I knew exactly what I was doing.
Hair next.
I plugged in the dryer and worked through each section until dark waves fell glossy and perfect around my shoulders. Not a strand out of place.
Makeup: understated but lethal. Defined brows, subtle bronze, lips the color of expensive wine.
Jewelry—delicate gold hoops and the Cartier bracelet Daddy bought me for graduation.
I stepped back and assessed.
If they wanted an assistant, they'd get one that belonged on a Vogue cover.
Shoes.
The sensible flats sat there, mocking me.
Then the Louboutins—black, four-inch stilettos with that signature red sole.
My feet would scream by noon.
But pride wasn't negotiable.
I slid them on.
Checked my phone.
7:27 AM.
Shit.
I grabbed my bag, keys, and sunglasses—nearly tripped over the chair—
Chaos erupted as I flew down the stairs.
The conservatory glowed with morning light, all ivy-draped glass and the scent of fresh coffee.
My parents sat at the wrought-iron table, newspapers spread between silver platters.
"Juliette." Daddy glanced up, grinning. "There she is."
I didn't slow down.
"Can't talk, late—"
"Good luck, sweetheart." His voice carried warmth and genuine pride I didn't have time to analyze.
Mother smiled.
Actually smiled.
Not the polite curve she reserved for charity galas, but something brighter. Satisfied.
I froze mid-step.
When was the last time I'd seen her look that pleased about anything involving me?
"You look lovely, darling."
The compliment landed like a trap.
I pushed through the French doors, heels clicking across marble, then hitting the gravel drive.
The usual black sedan sat waiting, engine purring—
Except.
Wrong car.
Sleeker. Lower. A midnight Aston Martin that cost more than some people's houses.
And leaning against it, checking his watch with the patience of a man who'd timed my tardiness to the second—
Augustus.
My breath caught.
Four years.
Four years since I'd seen him outside of holiday cards and Forbes articles.
He looked... different.
Broader through the shoulders. Sharper in the jaw. The boy I'd sparred with over calculus homework had been replaced by someone who could command boardrooms with a glance.
His suit was charcoal perfection, three-piece, probably bespoke. Hair styled back, not a strand rebellious enough to break formation.
Those warm brown eyes lifted.
His eyes met mine.
Something flickered there—quick, and assessing. His gaze dropped, just for a heartbeat. Traveled from my heels to the hem of my skirt, back up to my face.
Clinical.
Professional.
Liar.
Heat crawled up my neck.
He didn't smile.
"You're late."
His voice—deeper than I remembered, smooth as aged whiskey—held no inflection.
I adjusted my bag, lifted my chin.
"And you're trespassing. Didn't realize my driveway came with a complimentary Evans."
"Your father thought a joint commute would be efficient."
Of course he did.
Michael Harper, master orchestrator, already meddling.
Augustus moved, opened the passenger door with the effortless grace of someone raised on etiquette manuals.
Gentleman to the core.
Even when delivering humiliation.
"Shall we?"
I swept past him and slid into leather seats that smelled like money and poor life choices.
The door shut with a soft thunk.
Augustus slid behind the wheel, no chauffeur in sight, and the engine purred to life.
Silence settled—thick, suffocating.
I fumbled with my phone, scrolling through nothing. Instagram. Email. Weather report I didn't care about.
Anything to avoid acknowledging the space between us.
His cologne invaded anyway.
Cedar and bergamot. Something darker underneath—sandalwood, maybe.
Expensive and subtle.
It filled the car like a accusation.
I crossed my legs, heard the whisper of silk against skin.
His hand shifted on the steering wheel.
Long fingers. No rings. That damned antique Patek catching morning light.
Stop staring.
I fixed my gaze out the window.
Shorebridge rolled past—manicured estates giving way to glass towers, the city waking.
My thumb hovered over a text to Camille.
save me
Deleted it.
Typed: you owe me wine tonight
Deleted that too.
The silence stretched, elastic and unbearable, threatening to snap.
"I saw the news about your arrival."
His voice cut through the silence like a blade through silk.
I stiffened.
"You always did make an entrance, Harper."
Heat flooded my cheeks. The memory of those paparazzi flashes, the champagne-soaked afterparties, the declined credit card—
"What can I say? Some of us know how to work a room."
His jaw ticked.
"You know, I don't usually drive." He shifted gears smoothly, the engine purring as we merged onto the expressway. "Or pick up my assistants."
Heat flared in my chest, sharp and immediate.
"Well, lucky me." I turned to face him, letting every ounce of venom coat my words.
"Tell me, Evans—do all your assistants get the CEO chauffeur treatment, or am I just special?"
His eyes stayed fixed on the road.
"Your father thought—"
"My father thinks a lot of things." I crossed my arms. "Doesn't mean I have to play along with this little humiliation parade."
"Humiliation."
He said it like he was testing the word, rolling it around to see if it fit.
"That's what you call an opportunity to learn?"
"Learn." I scoffed. "There are a hundred better places to learn than playing fetch for you."
Something shifted in his expression—the corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. More dangerous than that.
A smirk.
Faint, but unmistakable.
"We'll see."
The words hung between us, a promise or a threat.
Shorebridge's financial district rose ahead, all obsidian glass and steel ambition.
Ever Tower loomed tallest—a minimalist monolith that screamed Augustus Evans in architectural form.
Cold. Perfect. Untouchable.
The Aston Martin slid into the underground garage, tires whispering against polished concrete.
Here we go.