"And deep down, I knew—some mistakes never stay buried."
I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror, pressing down the wrinkles on my white blouse. It used to be crisp—now it just looked tired. The brown skirt I slipped into had seen better days, and my black flats had long lost their shine. But rent was due, and new clothes weren't a priority. Feeding Adrien was. Keeping the landlord from knocking every Sunday was.
"Mommy, you look like a teacher!" Adrien giggled from the bed, legs swinging, cereal bowl in hand.
I smiled faintly. "A teacher who really needs this job."
Jason leaned against the kitchen counter, messy blonde hair sticking in every direction. "Relax, Auri. You'll crush it. You're gonna slay it, even if your skirt says otherwise."
I snorted, pinning my hair into a messy bun. "Yeah, sure. I'll just ignore the part where I'm walking into one of the biggest firms in the world wearing a discount skirt and hope they don't notice."
He rolled his eyes, tossing me his jacket. "Then wear this. Makes you look… intimidating."
Adrien hopped off the bed, running to me. "Mommy, you're gonna win!" he said, wrapping his tiny arms around my legs.
My throat tightened. "From your lips to God's ears, baby."
Jason crouched, fixing Adrien's hair. "I got him today. Go make us proud, yeah?"
I nodded, grabbing my old file folder—résumé, certificates, a letter that looked more like a prayer than an application—and headed out.
The D'Angelo Company towered over the city like it owned it—and maybe it did. The kind of place people only dreamed of working in. I heard Kieran D'Angelo the CEO was a legend in the business world, and not a gentle one. News articles and industry whispers painted a picture of a man who didn't just build empires, he razed competitors to the ground. Ruthless was the word most often used, followed closely by brilliant and unforgiving.
He was known for making new hires cry within their first week and firing people on a whim if they couldn't keep up with his relentless pace. I was scared, more than scared; I was terrified. I needed this job—needed the salary, the experience, the escape—but the thought of facing the man himself made my palms slick with sweat.
The moment I walked through the revolving doors, the air changed. Expensive perfume. Polished shoes. Cold stares.
I approached the front desk. The receptionist looked up, scanned me once—from my frayed hem to my worn-out shoes—and forced a polite smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"You're lost right?"
I shook my head. "I…"
"Interview?"
"Yes." My voice came out smaller than I wanted.
"Name?"
"Aurielle Duval."
She typed something slowly, like each keystroke pained her. Then her eyes flicked up again, judgment thick enough to choke on. "You can… wait over there." She gestured vaguely toward the chairs, tone dripping with disdain.
I thanked her quietly, pretending not to notice the smirk tugging at her lips.
As I sat among the other well-dressed applicants. They whispered and side-eyed my outfit. I clutched my folder tighter. One by one, applicants walked in—perfect suits, perfect heels, perfect hair. Some went inside the interview room with confidence and came out crying. Others came out pale, shaken, whispering rumors about the boss.
They said he was ruthless. That he didn't just look at your résumé—he looked straight into your soul.
And for a second, I wondered if coming here was a mistake.
A polished lady finally appeared, clipboard in hand. "Aurielle Duval? Mr. D'Angelo will see you now." Her eyes flicked over me once, sharp and judgmental, but she didn't speak. She simply said, "follow me."
Passing through the hallway, I overheard snippets of conversation from the interviewers stepping out of the CEO's office:
"No one gets hired unless he personally approves them—and he never approves anyone."
"He tore my portfolio apart like it was paper. I barely made it out without crying."
I froze. My stomach knotted. So this is what I'm walking into… My old skirt, my worn blouse, my scuffed flats—they might as well scream amateur. My chest tightened. Maybe I'm not cut out for this.
The lady simply gestured toward the glass office doors at the end of the hall.
I inhaled, forcing my nerves into submission. My hands shook as I stepped inside.
The office was minimalist luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, a skyline that screamed power, and a silence so heavy I could almost taste it. He was there, at his desk—or rather, standing by the window, hands in his pockets, back to me. The faintest scent of sandalwood...and expensive leather drifted through the air.
"Close the door, Aurielle."His voice was a low, resonant rumble that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. It was a voice accustomed to absolute obedience, a voice that turned instructions into inescapable commands. I did as I was told, the heavy door clicking shut behind me, the sound of the city instantly muffled.
The silence in the room became oppressive, broken only by the rapid, frantic beat of my own heart.He didn't turn around right away. He remained a silhouette against the vast cityscape, a monolith of power and control. Every nerve ending in my body was screaming at me to run, to bolt from this room and go back to the familiar struggles of my life.
This was a man who didn't play by the rules; he made them.Finally, he turned.Kieran D'Angelo was devastatingly handsome in the kind of way that was almost offensive. Sharp jawline, dark hair swept back, eyes so intensely blue they looked like chipped sapphires, set in a face that seemed carved from granite.
Those blue eyes. Looked just like Adrien's eyes but more piercing.
There was no warmth in those eyes, only a cold, calculating assessment. He wore a perfectly tailored suit that cost more than my entire life's savings, emphasizing a physique that was as intimidating as his reputation.His gaze swept over me, a slow, deliberate inspection that made me feel entirely exposed. It wasn't a look of lust; it was a look of dissection. He took in my cheap blouse, my worn skirt, my shaky hands clutching the file, and a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
It was a smirk of disdain, of dismissal."Sit," he commanded, gesturing to one of the two modern chairs in front of his massive mahogany desk.I sat, my movements stiff and awkward.
He walked around the desk, his movements fluid and predatory. He sat opposite me, leaning forward, his intense gaze never leaving mine. I forced myself to meet his eyes, refusing to look away, though every instinct screamed at me to lower my gaze in submission.
He picked up my file from the desk, flipped it open, and began to read. The silence stretched on, thick with tension. He didn't just read it; he scrutinized every word, every certificate, every reference."Aurielle Duval," he murmured, his voice laced with a dark, velvet smoothness. "Single mother. No prior experience in a firm of this caliber. Gaps in your employment history. Rent arrears. Your resume reads less like an application and more like a tragedy, Ms. Duval."My cheeks flushed with heat.
He hadn't just looked at my resume; he had somehow excavated my entire, messy life.
How did he know about the rent? The gaps?"I'm a fast learner, Mr. D'Angelo," I said, my voice steadier than I expected. "I'm dedicated, and I work harder than anyone you'll ever meet. I just need a chance."
He dropped my file on the desk with a soft thud, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes narrowed, and the look he gave me wasn't of a boss evaluating a potential employee. It was the look of a predator assessing a weakness.
"Hard work doesn't interest me, Ms. Duval. Efficiency does. Perfection does. I don't have time for chances. I hire the best, the ones who can handle the pressure, not break under it." He paused, his gaze dropping to my hands gripping the arms of the chair. "You look like you're about to snap.
""I won't," I lied, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Try me."
He chuckled then, a low, humorless sound. It wasn't amusement. It was something darker. "You have spirit. I'll give you that." He stood abruptly, towering over the desk. "The position is for my personal assistant. The previous four didn't last a month. They cried. They crumbled. They ran."He walked around the desk to my side, forcing me to tilt my head back to look at him. His scent—sandalwood and dominance—filled my senses. He leaned down, placing both hands on the arms of my chair, caging me in. My breath hitched in my throat.
"I need someone who can handle anything I throw at them. Someone who won't be intimidated by me, or my demands."
His eyes bore into mine, searching for the crack, the moment my façade broke. "I need a pawn I can control. A piece of clay I can mold."He was close enough now that I could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.
The proximity was overwhelming, suffocating. This wasn't a standard interview. This was a test of willpower, a psychological battlefield."Is that you, Aurielle?" he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "Are you that desperate?"
I swallowed hard, the weight of Adrien's future, of our rent, of everything resting on my answer. I wouldn't let him break me. Not now."Yes, Mr. D'Angelo," I whispered back, meeting his gaze with a defiant glint. "I'm that desperate. And I'm the one you need."
He straightened up, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his lips—a smile that promised trouble and held zero kindness."Good," he said, turning back to his desk.
"You start Monday. Be here at six a.m. sharp. Don't be late."He hadn't asked any more questions about my skills. He hadn't checked my typing speed. He had simply looked into my soul, found the raw desperation that was my core motivation, and decided that was all he needed. I had a job, but as I walked out of that office, I couldn't shake the feeling that I hadn't just been hired; I had been claimed.