1. Isabelle

Chapter 1

Isabelle

"No, no, no…" I stare down at the spreading coffee stain on my brand-new dark gray pencil skirt with abject horror. " Nooooo. "

The skirt doesn't say anything back. No apologies for not being stain-resistant, no helpful suggestions.

I bought this outfit with the last money in my bank account, and I have a job interview at Emerson Industries in forty-five minutes. This cannot be happening to me.

Racing to my makeshift closet, I try on my only pair of black slacks, but the button falls off as I try to do them up.

That leaves my school uniform, which I only have because I couldn't sell it last year. Stupid school, changing their uniform standard immediately after I graduate.

Fingers shaking, I put on the kilt and smooth my hands over my hips. It falls to just above my knees, and with the silky blouse I'm wearing, it doesn't code that strongly as a uniform. Most importantly, it doesn't smell like coffee, so it'll have to do.

I catch the bus at the corner and stand the whole way, lest I sit in something unpleasant. By the time I reach the soaring office building, my head is buzzing and my hands are trembling.

Standing on the sidewalk, I stare up at the glittering windows and say a silent prayer that I find what I need inside.

From the moment I saw this job posting last week, it's held all of my hopes, and not only because it pays better than most entry-level research assistant positions. There was something about how the posting was worded that called to me. It described long hours, needing to be a self-starter who can take initiative, and all I read between those lines was, finally, someone might value me.

But I have to impress them first.

Inside, I give my name to security, and they hand me a visitor's badge before pointing to the elevators.

The doors open as I approach, and a giant man strides out. He's tall and bearded, with fierce dark eyebrows and wild black hair shot through with silver. An impeccable suit that has never seen a drop of coffee is wrapped around his long, powerful limbs.

I'm spellbound, transfixed in a way I've never been by another human being. He's larger than life, obviously powerful, and he radiates an energy that I swear I can feel, palpable in the air.

Deep in my belly, the nerves I'd been feeling about my interview are replaced by the spark of something very strange. I know I would do anything for this man. I want to please him, immediately, with a profound desperation.

He's barking orders at someone who is chasing along behind him, but he stops suddenly, and his gaze shifts, searching, and then he looks down and locks onto me.

One of those fierce eyebrows arches up, as if to say, what do we have here?

And then he waits, seemingly demanding an answer. I swallow hard and hold up my visitor's badge. "I have an interview with the research department," I squeak.

"Do you?" He holds up his hand to his chaser, cutting them off. "What's your name, little one?"

"Isabelle Bright." That light-headed feeling from outside has returned, and I sound dazed. Get it together, Izzy! Impress this giant!

He repeats my name, the four syllables rumbling like thunder. "Are you going to the forty-third floor?"

"Yes, I am."

"We'll go up with you." His hand waves again, cutting off another whispered comment.

"That's not necessary," I say in a rush. If he gets in that elevator with me, I might pass out, and that would be a horrible way for HR to find me. "I'm sure I'll find it. You must be busy. Please, carry on with whatever you were on your way to do. I can manage from here."

"I'm sure you can. Still, I'm coming with you." He's already pivoted and is herding me onto the elevator. He stabs the door closed button before his minion can get on with us.

The doors close as I blurt out, "Are you important?"

It spills out of me before I can think about what it sounds like—a silly, girlish observation. Not something one who might believe themselves capable of working at Emerson Industries should say.

He smiles, a hard slash across his stern face. "In this building, that's the general consensus. But it makes people fear me, which has its downsides. Nobody ever tells me the truth, for example. They only tell me what I want to hear."

"Oh." I gulp down my disappointment. "If that's the culture here, I'm not going to fit in at all."

"You won't?"

I shake my head, feeling miserable that I spent the money on the bus fare. "I'm not capable of lying. It's a problem, actually. I was hoping to work here because the position said I could work on my own. I don't have a lot of people skills, which isn't something I should tell someone who works here, I realize. I don't know if you know anyone in the hiring department, but?—"

"Isabelle," he says roughly. "Being honest is a highly-valued trait in this company. If you want the job, it's yours."

"You mean it?"

"Yes, of course I do. Honesty is a virtue."

The elevator doors open.

As soon as we step out, three people snap to attention. He guides me past the reception desk, barking an order to have Wesley come to his office immediately. I recognize the name as the hiring manager who I'm interviewing with.

Now I feel really dumb. "Are you Wesley's boss?" My cheeks flame. "I'm so sorry about everything I said. I would?—"

"I'm not his boss. Wesley reports to the director of human resources, who reports to a vice president." He's walking so fast it's hard to keep up with him, and I have to run every third step.

We approach a wide open area with another reception desk, and keep going. The carpet here is even more lush than in the first part of the office.

He stops in front of a heavy-looking glass door, frowns, and pushes it open. Inside is a desk, a wide bookshelf, and another door, all taking second place to the incredible view of the city out the floor-to-ceiling window. "This will do."

"For what?"

"For you," he says at the same time as the door bursts open again and a man—who is maybe the same age as my stern self-appointed guardian, but he looks older and more tired—rushes in.

"Mr. Emerson," the other man says. "I'm sorry, there's been some kind of mixup."

My head swivels between them, and I repeat the name. It comes out as a confused question. "Mr. Emerson?"

"Mack Emerson, please. And it's not a mix-up. I met Ms. Bright downstairs and realized she was exactly who I was missing in my life. I'll be conducting her interview myself, Wesley. You can go."