Chapter 3

He lets out a low, amused huckle that feels warmer than the morning air. "Oh, no." A slow, knowing shake of his head follows. "I'm Sebastian, the Morgans' personal driver. I've been behind the wheel for them since they were just boys. They've grown into quite the pair of gentlemen."

There's two of them?

The drive is smooth. No sudden swerves, no honking. Just the occasional low murmur of Sebastian's voice cutting through the silence. I don't mind the quiet though. I've always been better at listening than talking. He seems to pick up on that quickly.

We make small talk, mostly driven by him. He's good at it, casual but not nosy. There's an air of professionalism to him that makes it easy to relax a little in his presence. He doesn't push too hard, doesn't ask questions that feel loaded. He's polite, well-spoken. He seems like the kind of man I wish my mom brought around instead of the drunk losers who never take their shoes off when the enter they house or care to remember my name.

"Have you ever been to the island before?"

I shake my head. "No, sir. First time."

He gives me a thoughtful nod, eyes still on the road. "Not many people have. The Morgans value their privacy." He says it respectfully. Like even he doesn't step over certain lines, no matter how long he's worked for them. "But," he continues, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, "they take care of their staff. Always have."

I nod, staring out of the window as the city blurs into the distance. "That's good to know," I say, and mean it.

The drive takes about forty minutes. Most of the route is quiet. Winding roads flanked by trees that grow thicker and taller the further we go. The city fades, and in its place comes a calm I'm not used to. It's nice, in a surreal sort of way.

The road narrows and we slow as we approach a tall, black iron gate. It stretches wide, flanked by stone walls and two armed guards in dark uniforms. One of them steps forward to check Sebastian's ID. It's all done quickly and quietly and then the gate creaks open, revealing a long private road ahead.

We drive onto a bridge that stretches over the glittering ocean. I can't help but press my face closer to the window, watching as the water sparkles under the sun, hypnotic and impossibly blue. The wind moves in soft gusts across the surface making it look like liquid glass. I've never seen anything like it in real life. Only in movies. Rich people movies.

Just pass the trees, the island opens up. I know I saw it on G****e, but this... this is something else. Massive. Like it was pulled out of a dream, or maybe a presidential dream. A towering white mansion sits in the distance, complete with Grecian-style pillars that stretch to the road, giving it an almost presidential presence.

We pull into a circular driveway with a fountain in the middle, and flowerbeds too perfect to be real. And then there are the cars.

Dozens of them, parked like they're on display. Sleek, gleaming machines with names I don't recognize. I don't have to know what they're called to know each one costs more than I've ever made in my life. Some of them probably cost millions. This place could swallow my apartment complex whole, chew it up, and still have room to park every damn car.

We pull up to the front of the house. White stone steps lead up to massive, double black doors, tall enough to let a giant in. There's a brass knocker the size of my face and intricate detailing carved into the frame.

Once the car stops, I reach for the handle, eager to put my shaky legs to use, but Sebastian clicks his tongue. I glance up in the rearview mirror to find him smiling. "That's my job, sweet girl. Hold tight."

I freeze, pulling my hand back, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Right. This isn't the city bus or my neighbors busted Civic. This is luxury, and I clearly don't know how to act in it. I give a nervous laugh and fold my hands in my lap to keep from fidgeting.

Sebastian makes his way around the car. When he open the back door, he extends a hand, fingers relaxed and waiting. I place mine in his. His grip is gentle as he helps me out of the backseat like I'm important. Something I've never been.

The breeze hits my skin as I step out, and Sebastian places a guiding hand on my back, leading me toward the steps. Each one I climb feels heavier than the last. White stone under my sneakers. My palms sweating. My heart doing a damn tap dance in my chest.

Before we even make it to the doors, they swing open.

And sweet hell.

Standing in the entryway is a man who looks like he stepped straight off the cover of a high end fashion magazine, or maybe out of my forbidden dreams. My breath catches so fast I'm not even sure my lungs work anymore.

He's tall. At least 6'4, maybe more with how the sunlight outlines him. Broad shoulders fill out a crisp, black dress shirt. Long sleeves, with the top two buttons undone, revealing the faintest tease of olive skin and many tattoos peeking out.

His black slacks hang perfectly on his lean hips, tailored and expensive without trying too hard. His black shoes are polished enough the catch my reflection in them.

Then there's his face. Lord help me.

Thick, perfectly arched eyebrows. Dark brown eyes, like warm espresso. His jawline could slice through my better judgment, dusted with that maddeningly sexy shadow of clean-cut facial hair. And his hair, black, a little longer on the top and slicked back, sharp on the sides like the rest of him. Ruthless but refined.

Did I mention the tattoos?

They snake up around his throat, just barely visible under his collar. I spot more on his hands, ink etched along strong fingers and knuckles, ending in a gold pinky ring that blinds me when the sun hits it. Big. Gaudy. Expensive. Like everything about him.

Holy Italian.

My throat goes dry and I swallow hard, willing myself to stop gawking like some desperate tourist seeing their first Roman statue come to life. But this man... this God at the door. He might be the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And I have no idea how the hell I'm supposed to speak now.

Sebastian clears his throat gently beside me. "Miss Salazar, meet Mr. Silas Morgan."

This is Silas?

I blink. Once. Twice.

No. No fucking way.

I was expecting someone older. Maybe late forties if I had to guess. But the man standing in front of me? He doesn't even look thirty, let alone running an estate this massive. Mid-twenties, tops. And goddamnit, why does my potential boss have to look like he was handcrafted by sinful thoughts?

Silas steps forward and offers his hand. His fingers are long and thick, calloused in a way that hints he doesn't spend all his time lounging in boardrooms. I reach out to shake it, keeping my composure.

Instead of the firm handshake I expected, his flips my hand gently and presses a slow kiss to the back of it.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Salazar."

His voice is smooth, deep, and raspy enough to be indecent. It's the kind of voice that would make a woman's thighs clench on instinct. Not that mine did. Not noticeably... hopefully.

"I-uh...hello," I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper. What a great fucking start.

He's still holding my hand when I say it, those dark eyes of his focused entirely on me. It's not just the way he looks at me, it's how he looks at me. Like he already knows I didn't sleep, that I spent half of the morning throwing up nerves. And then he glances down. At me. At my clothes.

I follow his gaze and feel my body tense. His eyes drift over my tank top, the old but clean leggings, the cardigan that probably screams discount bin. And just like that, I want to sink into the stone porch beneath my feet.

Oh God. I look poor. Because I am poor. And I'm standing in front of him. This tall, rich, sexy man with tattoos and a house bigger than my entire block. I feel every bit of it.

I quickly smooth down the front of my shirt, trying to salvage whatever dignity I have left. "I'm sorry," I blurt. "I know this isn't professional. It's just... it's the best thing I had."

His head tilts slightly, and then he does something I don't expect. He smiles.

A slow, easy, unbothered smile. "Don't apologize, angel."

My heart skips. My cheeks warm instantly. Did he just... call me angel?

That's cute... and soft. And surprisingly sweet coming from a man who looks like he could break someone in half and not flinch. I glance away, pretending to focus on literally anything else.

Sebastian is watching with a knowing look. "It was a pleasure, Miss Salazar," he says with a short bow.

I turn to him, grateful for the brief escape from Silas's gaze. "Thank you, Sebastian," I say, meaning it. "It was great to meet you."

And then he walks off, and I'm left standing at the threshold of the grandest house I've ever seen in front of a man who just called me angel. What the hell did I get myself into?

"Come," Silas says. "Let's start that interview and see if you're a good fit."

I nod quickly, maybe too quickly, and my feet step past the threshold.

It's like crossing into another world.

White. Gold. Black. Everywhere. The floors are so shiny I'm scared my shoes will mess them up. Light bounces off polished surfaces, glinting of gilded trim and crystal fixtures that cost more than my rent for a year. The air even smells expensive. Cedarwood with a touch of mint. Is that his cologne?

His hand. Warm and firm, settles on the small of my back. A jolt rushes up my spine, and I nearly miss a step. Don't trip. Don't trip. Do not fucking trip. Not in this house and not in front of him.

He walks with natural confidence. I focus on matching his strides, on keeping my breathing normal, on not getting distracted by the gentle pressure of his fingers on my back. We move down a long corridor, high ceilings stretching overhead, each hallway branching into more rooms than I can count. Living rooms? Parlors? Guest wings? I don't know. I've only ever seen houses like this on N*****x shows.

I assume we're heading to his office. Somewhere private. Somewhere where I'm going to be grilled, tested, and measured.

What if this actually works out? What if I get the job? What if, for once, I'm not just scraping by?

I could finally help my mom. Maybe even get her into a rehab facility. Not the fake kind where they don't feed you and dump you out three days later. I could buy groceries without counting every single dollar. I could breathe.

I glance up at the man beside me. Silas Morgan, who's terrifyingly in control of my future.

I silently pray this interview goes well. Because if it does, my entire life could finally start to change.