Chapter 2: The Jerk in the Executive Chair
Waking up early was not just a challenge—it was a crime against my soul. Sleep and I had a sacred relationship, and I didn’t take kindly to being wrenched from it. But today, apparently, was worth the betrayal.
My phone buzzed like it was possessed. I groaned and pawed at it blindly, dragging it to my ear.
“...H-Hello?” I mumbled, voice hoarse and brain still in the clouds of REM.
“MARLA QUINN!” Tessa’s voice blasted through the receiver like a fire drill. “Oh thank God, I thought you’d never answer!”
“What?” I blinked. “Is someone dead?”
“No. Better.” She paused for dramatic effect. “You got the job.”
I sat up like a bolt. “Wait. What?!”
“You heard me! My uncle’s contact at Pink Moda saw your profile and loved your look! You’re officially in. They want to see you today.”
“You’re joking.”
“Why would I joke about your dream coming true? Get over here now—I have the perfect outfit. It screams ‘hire me and make me famous.’”
She hung up before I could process anything.
I blinked again. Then screamed into my blanket.
==
Tessa always said I got my looks from my mom, and today I was inclined to believe her. My hair—chestnut waves with an accidental curl in the right light—actually looked good for once. My blue eyes were less tired than usual, and my skin had that soft post-shower glow. Tessa insisted I had “a model’s balance of sharp and soft,” whatever that meant.
I wasn’t sure what to make of the outfit she thrust at me. A red sleeveless jumpsuit with a deep sweetheart neckline, silver stilettos that made me feel like a baby giraffe, and a full face of war paint courtesy of Tessa’s “glam artillery.” My curled hair bounced with each step as she made finishing touches like a stage mom before a pageant.
“You look like a Vogue cover that got possessed by ambition,” she said, satisfied.
“Are you sure I don’t look like I’m trying too hard?” I asked, eyeing myself in the mirror with suspicion.
“Marla. You could wear a potato sack and still make jaws drop. Now stop doubting and get in the car.”
She tossed me her purse. “Hold this. You need something designer-looking if you want to blend in.”
==
Pink Moda was a cathedral of glass and ego. The building practically glittered, and as we stepped out of Tessa’s cherry-red sports car, I could already feel my imposter syndrome boiling up.
Security was no joke—ID checks, metal detectors, a digital sign-in system that scanned your face. We finally made it into the lobby, but no one even acknowledged us. Everyone looked like they were mid-crisis or typing a million-dollar email.
Then Tessa’s phone rang.
She answered it, face draining of color as she listened. “Ugh. Babe, I’m so sorry. Matt’s sick. I need to check on him.”
“That’s okay,” I said, trying not to sound panicked.
She squeezed my hand. “You’ve got this. Just do everything I told you. You look like money, now act like it.”
And then she was gone. And I was alone. In a mega-corporate fashion empire.
Cool.
I hovered awkwardly until a woman in a pencil skirt and sky-high heels approached me, balancing two thick files.
“New hire?” she asked briskly.
I nodded. “Yes. Just started today.”
“Great. First task—take this file to Mr. Locke’s office. That’s the CEO. You do not leave until it’s signed.”
My stomach flipped. “Okay.”
She started to walk off, then paused and leaned in. “Word of advice? Keep your tone polite. He’s... difficult.”
“Oh. Uh, thanks?”
“You’ll meet your department later. The office number’s on the folder—204.”
==
The elevator ride up was mercifully quiet. One other guy stood inside, texting. He looked up and smiled faintly.
“You new?”
“Yeah. Just started today.”
“I’m Jackson.” He offered his hand. Nice grip. Warm eyes.
“Marla,” I said.
“Cool. See you around.” And just like that, he was gone.
I stepped out and clutched the file like a shield, scanning the hallway until I found 204.
Deep breath.
I pressed the button beside the door. A muffled “Come in” answered. I stepped inside.
The office was absurdly large—sleek, modern, with black leather furniture and wall-to-wall windows showing off the skyline. One man sat at the far end, chair turned away, facing the city like some brooding movie villain.
“Mr. Locke,” I said, clutching the file. “Here’s the document you need to sign.”
“Leave it,” he said curtly, still not turning around.
“I was instructed to wait until you’d signed it.”
Silence. Then a slow, irritated sigh. The chair creaked as he spun around.
And I froze.
That face.
That hair.
Those eyes.
The bastard in the Ferrari.
The arrogant, cold-hearted, cash-throwing jackass from yesterday.
His expression changed at the exact same time as mine.
“You?” we both said, voices overlapping like badly dubbed TV.
Of course. Because the universe clearly hates me.
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