JASMINE
I studied myself in the rearview mirror for the third time that morning. Not because I'm a perfectionist, but because things just have to be perfect.
Hair? Straight, silky, and smells nice.
Lips? Confident red.
Outfit? Giving old money.
Eyes? Bright enough to fake eight hours of sleep.
"This is it, Jazz," I whispered to my reflection. "No screw-ups. No distractions. You need this."
Maybe I didn't actually explain the depth of me needing this. I need this so bad.
Not just because the position was a dream. Not just because the salary could finally free me from the one-bedroom jungle I shared with my overly curious landlady and three ceiling spiders. Not even because the pay I got from the company I used to work for was peanuts.
And not just because Chris—my boyfriend—had just applied for a senior analyst role at his firm, and the tension between us was growing like mold under the rug.
We're both chasing our next level. Only one of us can afford to stumble.
Not because Marianne gave my well-deserved promotion to Eric, who did absolutely nothing but be a pain in my ass since the day I walked into that office.
It's because I need this to prove my self-worth.
Mrs. America's words from July echoed in my ears:
"Find a company that understands your worth. That sees your value—what you bring to the table. A company that wants you to succeed without trying to downplay your success."
"Please, God. Just let me get through this interview without embarrassing myself."
I stepped out of my car, smoothing the front of my blazer. I was proud of this outfit—burgundy fitted pantsuit, white silk blouse, kitten heels. It screamed I'm smart, stylish, and definitely not broke.
Then it happened.
A sharp honk.
A rush of wind.
And a splash of mud that missed me by one inch.
I shrieked and leapt back as a black Bentley ghosted past me and pulled into the executive lot like it owned the damn building.
"What the hell!" I snapped. "You reckless lunatic! Learn to drive!"
People really think they can do anything they want and get away with it because of money. Not even a single apology.
The car parked. I glared at the windshield like my death stare could melt glass.
The driver stepped out, acting like he didn't just try to run me over and decorate my corpse with mud. He opened the door for his boss like nothing happened.
He didn't even look my way.
Just great. I'd parked in a reserved spot. Probably his. Ugh. But thank God the splash missed my suit.
I shook off the adrenaline, reapplied a dab of lip gloss in the glass door reflection, and whispered, "Today is still your day, Jazz."
I needed all the enthusiasm I could get. After this, I was treating myself to a pepperoni pizza with extra cheese.
The 34th floor was glass, steel, and nerve-wracking silence.
The receptionist gave me a short nod.
"Miss Ford?"
"Yes. I'm here for the marketing director interview."
She gestured to a side room with frosted glass doors.
"You're with Mrs. Anders. Good luck."
I stepped in, heart steady. I'd practiced this in the mirror a couple of times. I could do this. Once I got through this, I could launch into beast mode.
Anxiety had already taken a huge toll.
Mrs. Claire Anders sat at a round table. Early fifties, icy blonde, strict posture, flawless pearls. HR director—according to my prep notes.
Beside her was a younger man. Sleeves rolled up, messy hair, glasses. Julian, head of digital campaigns. Friendly-looking. I could work with him.
"Miss Ford," Claire said, standing with a firm handshake. "Right on time."
"Thank you for having me."
I sat, palms flat, shoulders back.
"Let's begin with your experience. You've led two major brand turnarounds in the past three years, correct?"
"Yes, ma'am. At Clove Media, I took a flailing skincare brand and increased their digital reach by 320% within four months. And last year, I rebranded a luxury hotel chain's entire social media identity—from outdated to viral."
Julian leaned forward.
"You were behind the Luna & Lava campaign?"
I smiled.
"The flaming bathtub? Guilty."
He chuckled. Claire did not.
"Impressive," Claire said flatly. "Tell me. If you're hired, and your superior assigns you to lead a campaign you fundamentally disagree with, what do you do?"
"I'd ask why they believe in the approach. Challenge them with facts. And if we still disagree, I'd deliver results their way first—then pitch mine with proof."
Claire gave a tight nod. Julian looked openly impressed.
"One more," Claire said. "Why Wolfe Industries?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Because this company takes brands people forget… and makes them impossible to ignore. That's what I do too. I want to grow here. Learn. But also lead."
There was a pause. Claire glanced at Julian. He nodded.
"You'll hear from us within the next forty-eight hours."
I stood, shook their hands, and turned to leave… and froze.
The glass door opened.
In walked the man from the Bentley.
Broad shoulders. Arrogant stride. Ice-blue eyes.
Him.
"Apologies, Claire. Had a parking incident."
I blinked. Hard.
He blinked back.
His gaze dipped briefly to my shoes. Recognition flickered across his face—just a twitch of the eyebrow.
My stomach dropped.
No. Freaking. Way.
Adrian Wolfe.
The mud-splashing driver.
My college nemesis.
And apparently…
He works here?