The sky over London was the color of a wet pigeon, and Sophie Miller was currently losing a fight with a revolving door.
"Come on, you glass-panelled beast!" Sophie hissed, shoving her shoulder against the door of the Sterling Tower in Canary Wharf.
She was exactly seven minutes late for the most important interview of her life. Her hair, usually a controlled mess of blonde curls, had succumbed to the British humidity and now resembled a highly agitated poodle. In her right hand, she balanced a "Mega-Grande" triple-shot caramel latte—her liquid courage. In her left, a CV that was slightly damp from the rain.
With one final, desperate heave, the door relented. Sophie shot out of the revolving trap like a cork from a champagne bottle.
"Oof!"
She didn't just walk into someone; she staged a full-scale tactical invasion. Her forehead connected with something hard, flat, and smelling expensive—like cedarwood and arrogance.
Then came the sound. Squelch.
The lid of her Mega-Grande latte didn't just pop off; it exploded. A tidal wave of sticky, beige caffeine launched itself forward, coating the pristine white shirt and charcoal-grey waistcoat of the man standing in front of her. It pooled in his lap and drizzled down his trousers with agonizing slowness.
The lobby of Sterling Tech went dead silent.
"Oh... oh, no," Sophie whispered, her eyes tracking a glob of caramel foam as it slid off a very expensive-looking silk tie. "Oh, sweet Mary, mother of caffeine."
The man didn't move. He stood like a statue carved from ice, his jaw tight enough to crack a walnut. He was tall—intimidatingly so—with dark hair swept back perfectly and eyes the color of a stormy Atlantic.
"You," he said. His voice was a low, dangerous baritone. "Are leaking."
"I am so sorry!" Sophie chirped, her panic response kicking into overdrive. "I'm a disaster. It's the door! The door is a predator! Here, let me... let me help."
She dropped her damp CV and began frantically patting his chest with her bare hands. Realizing that was weird, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the first piece of paper she could find.
"Hold still, Mr. Grumpy Pants, I'll get the worst of it!"
She began scrubbing at his midsection with the paper. It wasn't until she saw the bright neon orange logo that she realized what she was using.
"Is that..." the man looked down, his voice trembling with suppressed rage, "...a loyalty card for Big Baz's Kebab Hut?"
Sophie froze. She was currently rubbing a "Buy 10 Doners, Get 1 Free" card against a suit that probably cost more than her internal organs.
"It's... very absorbent?" she offered, giving him a weak, sheepish grin. "Plus, I only need two more stamps for a free spicy wrap. Consider it a gift?"
The man stepped back, his eyes flashing. "Get. Out."
"Right. Yes. Leaving. Going to my interview now," Sophie babbled, scooping up her damp papers. She turned and sprinted toward the elevators, yelling over her shoulder, "I'll send you a dry-cleaning check! Or a kebab! Whichever you prefer!"
She dived into the elevator just as the doors closed, catching one last glimpse of the man staring at his ruined crotch in utter disbelief.
Ten minutes later, after a frantic bathroom session involving paper towels and a hand dryer, Sophie stood outside the boardroom. She smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath, and knocked.
"Come in," a familiar, chilly voice called out.
Sophie walked in, wearing her best "hire me" smile. "Good morning! I'm Sophie Miller, and I'm here for the graphic design—"
The words died in her throat.
Sitting at the head of the mahogany table was the man from the lobby. He had changed into a fresh white shirt, but his eyes were just as stormy. He looked at her, then looked at the "Big Baz's Kebab Hut" card which was now sitting on the table in front of him like a piece of evidence in a murder trial.
Oliver Sterling leaned back and narrowed his eyes. "So, Miss Miller. Tell me... how do you plan to 'absorb' our marketing costs? Hopefully not with a kebab card?"
Sophie felt the floor tilting. The hook was set, and she was dangling over the abyss.
The Hook: Oliver doesn't fire her. Instead, he slides a contract across the table that has nothing to do with graphic design.