"And deep down, I knew—some mistakes don't stay buried. They claw their way back."
I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror, palms smoothing the wrinkles in my white blouse. It used to be crisp. Now it just looked exhausted—like me. My brown skirt had lost its shape, my black flats their shine. But rent was due, groceries were a war, and Adrien needed everything more than I needed new clothes.
"Mommy, you look like a teacher!" Adrien giggled from the bed, swinging his legs, cereal dripping down his spoon.
I forced a smile. "A teacher who really needs this job."
Jason leaned against the counter, messy blond hair sticking up like he fought a tornado. "Relax, Auri. You'll crush it. You're gonna slay—despite the skirt."
I shot him a look. "Great. I'll just walk into the biggest firm in America wearing a clearance rack outfit and pray no one narrows their eyes long enough to judge me."
He tossed me his jacket. "Then wear mine. Makes you look… intimidating."
Adrien hopped down, wrapping his tiny arms around my leg. "Mommy, you're gonna win!"
My throat tightened. "From your lips to God's ears."
Jason fixed Adrien's hair and saluted me with a grin. "I got him today. Go make us proud."
I grabbed my old file folder—résumé, worn certificates, and a letter that was more prayer than application—and headed out.
⸻
D'Angelo Headquarters
The D'Angelo Company towered over the city like it owned the skyline—
and maybe it did.
Kieran D'Angelo…
The media called him brilliant.
Employees called him ruthless.
Competitors called him a nightmare.
I was terrified.
The revolving doors swallowed me into a world of polished marble, glass, and silent judgment. Perfume hung in the air like wealth incarnate. Heels clicked. Suits glided. Eyes skimmed over me with thinly veiled disdain.
At the front desk, the receptionist glanced up, took one look at my outfit, and smiled like it physically pained her.
"You're… lost, right?"
"I—no. Interview."
Her smile tightened. "Name?"
"Aurielle Duval."
She typed slowly—like each keystroke burned her fingers—then pointed to the waiting area.
"You can sit… over there."
Applicants in sharp suits eyed me as I sat. Whispers. Side-glances. Perfect hair. Perfect heels. And me—worn, anxious, gripping my file like oxygen.
Applicants went in and came out pale.
Some with watery eyes.
One straight-up crying.
Rumors spread like smoke:
"No one gets hired unless he personally chooses you."
"He fired someone during the interview."
"He looks at you like he's peeling back your soul."
And for a moment, I wondered if coming here was a terrible mistake.
Then a polished woman with a clipboard appeared.
"Aurielle Duval? Mr. D'Angelo will see you now."
Her eyes swept my outfit—judgment sharp enough to slice skin—but she said nothing, just turned and walked.
I followed her down the hall, heart punching my ribs.
"He shredded my portfolio," one worker whispered to another.
"He's never satisfied with anyone."
"He fired someone for breathing too loudly."
My steps slowed.
The clipboard woman gestured to glass doors at the very end.
I inhaled, steadied myself, and pushed them open.
⸻
The Interview
The office was too quiet.
Too clean.
Too powerful.
Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city like a kingdom. Marble floors gleamed. The air smelled of sandalwood and expensive leather.
He stood facing the skyline, hands in his pockets, broad shoulders forming a silhouette of absolute control.
"Close the door, Aurielle."
His voice was a low command that wrapped around my spine like cold metal.
I closed the door.
Silence swallowed me whole.
He didn't turn.
Just stood there, still as a storm waiting to break.
Finally, he moved.
And when he turned—
My breath stalled.
Kieran D'Angelo was… devastating.
Jaw sharp.
Hair perfectly slicked back.
Eyes—icy blue, piercing, almost cruel.
Eyes that looked far too much like Adrien's.
He walked toward his desk with the smooth, dangerous confidence of a predator used to dominance. His gaze swept over me—my blouse, my skirt, my trembling hands.
A slow, faint smirk tugged his lip.
Disdain.
"Sit."
I sat, back stiff, trying not to fold under his gaze.
He opened my file.
Read every word with surgical precision.
Then looked up.
"Aurielle Duval," he murmured, voice smooth as velvet but twice as sharp. "Single mother. No corporate experience. Noticeable gaps in employment. Rent arrears."
My stomach dropped.
How—
How did he know that?
"This résumé," he continued, tapping the papers, "reads less like a job application and more like… a tragedy."
Heat rushed to my cheeks.
He didn't just know my résumé.
He knew my life.
"I'm a fast learner," I said. "I work hard. I just need a chance—"
He dropped the file with a soft thud, leaned back, and studied me like a puzzle he already knew the answer to.
"Hard work doesn't interest me. Efficiency does. Perfection does. I don't have time to gamble on desperation."
Desperation.
That was exactly what I was.
He stood suddenly, walked around the desk, and braced his hands on the arms of my chair—caging me in.
I froze.
His cologne.
His heat.
His presence—
It was overwhelming.
"I need someone who can handle anything I throw at them. Someone who won't break. Someone I can control."
His face hovered inches from mine.
"Is that you, Aurielle?
Are you that desperate?"
Adrien's face flashed in my mind.
His smile.
His little hands on my cheeks.
His future.
"Yes," I breathed, meeting his gaze. "I'm desperate. But I'm also the one you need."
His eyes darkened.
Slowly—too slowly—he straightened and returned to his desk.
A dangerous grin curled his lips.
"Good. You start Monday.
Six a.m.
Don't be late."
No typing test.
No questions about skills.
He had hired me off desperation alone.
But as I walked out of his office, one truth settled heavy in my chest:
I wasn't just hired.
I was claimed.