Chapter 004

The next morning, the gray light filtering through our apartment window felt less like a prison sentence and more like a spotlight. I woke up before my alarm, my heart hammering against my ribs, and lunged straight for my phone.

Inbox (1).

From: Clara Monroe

Subject: Interview Invitation — Allegra Events

I let out a breathless laugh, the kind that bubbled straight up from my toes. I was so excited I nearly woke Mom up, rushing across the hall in my bare feet to pound on Joan’s door.

Joan answered looking like the walking dead, dragging a blanket around her shoulders. "Mara, it's six in the morning—"

"I got the interview!" I squealed, grabbing her hands and spinning her around. "I need your help. I need to look professional. Like I belong in a high-rise office building on the east side of the city."

There was a pause. Then, a sharp gasp. “You’re kidding!”

“I’m not! They sent an email this morning inviting me in, the address and time, the whole thing.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Joan asked, dragging me to her sofa.

“I don’t have a choice Jo, I have to.” I sighed.

“You always have a choice Mara, but if this is what you want, then I’ll just have to go along with it.”

“Thanks you,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “I just— I need your help. The dress code’s formal black. You still have that dress you wore for your cousin’s engagement? The one with the slit?”

“The one you said made me look like I belonged in a perfume ad?”

“That’s the one.

She giggled. “You can have it, but only if you promise to let me do your makeup. You can’t go in there looking like you’ve been running double shifts at the bar.”

“I’ll take anything you give me,” I said, walking toward the bus stop. “Just… make me look like I belong there.”

Two hours later, Joan had me zipped into a sleek, charcoal-grey pencil skirt and a crisp, white silk blouse borrowed from her closet—the one she swore made her look like an investment banker. With my hair pinned into a smooth, elegant twist, I looked like a woman who didn't spend her nights dodging groping hands and wiping down sticky bars

By two in the afternoon, I was standing in front of a towering monolith of glass and polished steel on the east side of the city. The lobby smelled like expensive espresso and polished marble, a stark contrast to the damp cement of my hallway.

The receptionist directed me to the executive suites on the top floor. When the elevator doors slid open, I was met with quiet luxury—with the biggest grin I’d had in months, I stepped out of the elevator.

People in expensive shoes brushed past me, talking into phones, rushing somewhere important. For the first time, I didn’t feel like an outsider watching them. I was part of it now, at least a little.

Clara Monroe met me near the glass double doors. She looked every bit the senior coordinator—sharp, immaculate, and entirely unbothered.

"Mara Collins?" Clara asked, glancing down at the crisp CV in her hand as she led me into a sleek, minimalist conference room overlooking the skyline. "Right on time. Good. Have a seat."

I exhaled a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I woke up, smoothing my borrowed skirt and taking a seat across from her.

To my immense relief, the interview was strictly professional. She drilled me on my hospitality experience, my ability to handle high-pressure environments, and my discretion. I kept my answers sharp, polished, and confident.

When we finished, Clara leaned back, a small, approving smile touching her lips.

"Well, Mara, your background speaks for itself. But I’ll be honest—we are in a massive bind," Clara said, sliding a printed contract across the mahogany table. "Because of the short-notice nature of this weekend's high-profile gala and our severe understaffing, we aren't paying standard assistant rates."

My eyes flicked down to the figures printed at the bottom of the page. The salary was staggering—more than I made in four months at the café and the club combined.

"Furthermore," Clara continued smoothly, "we issue a mandatory upfront check of thirty percent today upon signing seeing that it’s the holiday season and you might need the money for a few things. And because we need reliable hands, we’ll be keeping you on a long-term contract following the event."

Thirty percent upfront. Cash. Enough to clear the bank notices and keep my mother’s medicine cabinet stocked for months.

I picked up the pen, my hand steady, and signed my real name: Mara Collins.

Ten minutes later, contract signed and a thick envelope of cash safely zipped inside my bag, I stepped out of Clara’s office. I felt like I had just climbed out of a sinking ship. I had the job, the money was real, and best of all, Adrian Holt hadn't even been anywhere near the room.

I turned the corner into the private executive corridor, letting out a quiet sigh of relief—and walked straight into a solid, unyielding wall of muscle.

A sharp jolt sent a hot paper cup flying. Dark, expensive coffee sloshed violently across a crisp, custom-tailored white shirt.

"Careful," a deep, gravelly voice cut through the air, cold enough to freeze summer.

My blood ran instantly cold.

I snapped my head up. Piercing steel-grey eyes. Impeccable bone structure. The man from the club.

Mr Holt.

Panic seized my throat so hard I couldn't breathe. He's here. He remembers me. He's going to pull out that gun right here in the hallway—

"I—I am so, so sorry!" I stammered, my hands flying out in sheer terror. Without thinking, I grabbed a napkin from my bag and lunged forward, frantically trying to dab at the coffee stain spreading across his chest. "Let me—let me clean that for you, I'm so clumsy, I didn't see where I was going—"

Adrian didn't flinch. He just looked down at me with absolute, chilling indifference, his expression flat and unreadable. He caught my wrist with a firm, effortless grip, stopping my hands mid-motion.

With a cold flick of his wrist, he pushed my hand away as if I were nothing more than an annoying gnat.

"Save it," he said dismissively, his voice dripping with aristocratic boredom. He didn't know my name, he didn't recognize my face from the dark, chaotic corner of Club Verona, and he certainly didn't care. To him, I was just a clumsy temporary assistant in a borrowed skirt.

Without another word, Adrian stepped around me, his broad shoulders brushing past mine as he continued down the corridor without a single backward glance.

I stood frozen in the hallway, my knees shaking, watching him walk away until the private elevator doors swallowed him whole.

He didn't know who I was. He had no idea.

Pressing a trembling hand to my chest, I let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh. I had just survived my first close encounter with a monster—and he didn't even notice I existed.