CHAPTER 1

CHELSEA

It's weird that I miss the weight of my knives against the pockets of my trousers.

But I don't dare bring them to an interview, unless I want to be arrested.

I smooth my hands on the flaps of my suit, not tearing my eyes from the double glass doors before me.

I won't delay, and I will answer normally. Like the name is mine. Hell, maybe if I say it long enough, it will actually become my name.

"May I ask what you are doing here?" a strange voice yanks me out of my head.

"Oh, I'm here for the job interview," I say, making my voice small and timid, like the image of an actual "Chelsea" I have in my head.

I don't know this Chelsea in particular—the one whose identity I stole. But I knew others in high school and college, and most of them were straight-up blonde, soft babies. So stereotyping much? Definitely.

The lady nods and walks back down the stairs, most likely back to her work. I puff a warm breath into my hands and sit straight. I can't be caught like that again. I have to act normal.

Well, normal can come later after I get this fucking job.

I glance around the general waiting area, peering down over the railing at the other employees.

The CEO is supposed to call me in himself? I wouldn't bet on it in a thousand yea—

"Miss Chelsea."

I snap forward onto my feet, answering quicker than normal. "Yes."

"Come in."

I nod, swallowing the lump that forms in my throat. Rage? Fear? I don't have time to process the emotion as I shove it away and focus on the task before me.

Two whole years, I have waited, and now that I finally see him behind all the paparazzi; alone and defenseless, all I can do is wait some more.

I form a hard smile on my lips, gritting my teeth as I tread carefully past the door he holds open for me.

I cannot help the bile that rises to my throat at his gentlemanly attitude. Of course, he wears a mask, hiding who the monster he truly is.

"So, Miss Chelsea," he glances from the paper on his table to meet my eyes, arching one of his brows so slightly I wouldn't see it if I weren't watching his every move for any sign of the devil lurking behind that facade.

I nod, taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders.

"Why do you think I should give you this job?" he finally asks, his eyes boring into mine. I stare right back.

"I am qualified for the jo—"

"Wrong answer." He leans into the table, his broad shoulders seemingly crowding the office—and trust me, it's a large office, seizing any breathing space I have. "Try again."

Shit, all my preparation. No way that's going down the drain.

It's just a simple job interview. One that will determine the fate of so many people. No pressure.

Taking a long, deep breath, I begin.

"I want this job. No," I shake my head. "I need this job," half truth and half lie.

"I'm determined to work hard to get to where I want to be, to be who I want to be, and this job is my new how. You can decide to give me this opportunity or not, but I will try again and again, maybe not here, but I will keep going until I build a life worth looking back on," I say in one breath, still holding that breath, my heart thumping at the base of my throat.

On paper, I am more than qualified for the job, but the position of personal assistant to the CEO of Romano Group is an intimate thing with him, and not only qualifications can get me into that position. I need to get into his head.

I keep my hands on my grey pants as I stare back at him.

The devil cocks his head. He must be wondering how I know what buttons to press. This isn't what you say at any regular job interview. Damn, you'd be thrown out in a second. But already knew exactly what to say to even stand a chance against this brute.

Pride wraps itself around my chest, sending heat to my cheeks even as fear lurks in my heart.

He leans back in his chair, still examining me, his dark green eyes moving from my shoulders to the table where my hands rest on my thighs, and then back to my eyes.

"What does success mean to you, Miss Chelsea?" he asks this time, a small smirk on his smug face.

Ugh, I want to smash his face in so badly.

But for the first time since I enter the office, my shoulders slump, and I don't fight to keep my chest up and tight. Because I finally speak the truth. Not half-truths, not lies—just the truth.

"Success to me means doing something bigger than me; for a person like me, who's so little, to be able to make a change in the grand scheme of things, for the better. That's what success is."

His poker face is amazing.

"With or without the money—but mostly with the money," I add that last part as a joke, not expecting any reaction. But a small chuckle escapes his throat, deep and thorough, and the sound rocks through me.

"That will be all, Miss Chelsea. We will contact you if necessary."

You mean if I get the job. I'm pretty sure I have a good chance, given what I already know about you. Of course, I say that in my head, keeping a bland smile on my face—one that doesn't reach my eyes.

"Thank you," I say, standing up and taking the hand he stretches out in a handshake.

He glances at my hand, and I spot the confusion that flickers in his eyes for a second.

~

I slam my apartment door shut and race to my closet, throwing on a pair of plain jeans and a shirt.

After changing into the clothes, I hurry out, racing to the bar. I have my share of luck every now and then, but I won't hinge everything on a job I'm not even sure I'll get and a plan that rests solely on that job.

Twenty full minutes of running, and I finally burst into the club through the back door, the music thumping in muffled waves through the building.

Staff race past me in their aprons. It's a full night. I mean, every night is a full night, but tonight is different. It's stuffed to the fucking brim, and it isn't even yet eight pm.

I shuffle through the kitchen staff, shoving my way to the main kitchen and then to the back room. I change into my uniform and race to meet my colleagues out at the bar.

"Why are you late?" Lana yells above the music, nearly deafening me.

I yell back, sweet revenge blooming in my chest as she winces at the pitch of my voice. And it's all for nothing—I tell her nothing happened and walk past her to the bar.

I stand behind the extremely long counter as I start serving the next person on the other side.

~

I toss the black bag into the bin, the bustle of the city still echoing through the walls at past midnight.

As I push the metal back door, a scuffling sound in the alley pulls me back.

Squinting my eyes, I catch the frames of two figures in the dim light. A man and a woman.

The man pushes the woman against the wall, and she pushes back, but he holds her in place. Before I can control myself, my feet move me closer to them.

"Hey, hey!" I yell, my voice booming in the alley. "Let her go."

"What's it to you?" the man immediately turns to face me, and I ball my fingers into a fist.

The woman, who now looks more like a nineteen-year-old, glares at me.

"Are you okay?" my voice is sullen as I reach to touch her, but she slaps my hand away. "Mind your own business." She grabs the man's hand—who, by the way, looks forty, and walks off.

My cheeks heat, and I avert my eyes from their disappearing figures. I welcome the sting of my nails biting into my palms, easing the constricting feeling in my throat.

Fucking hero complex.

~

It's four a.m and still dark.

The crisp air filters through my lungs as I take it in, listening to the near silence of the city and the chirping of birds in the distance. The small untarred road full of rocks leading to the main road is empty. It will be only a few hours until the road becomes packed with cars again.

A young kid rounds the back of the building, walking toward me, his sneakers crunching on the stony ground.

He looks around wearily as if he is being watched. I stand up straight and alert, every sense in my body coming alive.

Looking back and sideways, he hands a small paper bag to me. My heart skips as I stare at the bag and back at his face. He couldn't be more than sixteen years old, and his piercing blue eyes are alert but void.

Drugs.

"Take it." He shoves the bag against me and hurries back to where he came from.

I stand rooted to the ground, staring at the bag, my stomach churning. No one else has access to me like this. But to use a kid? Damn.

Waving my hands over my face, I pull out the small phone from the bag, and immediately I put it on, it rings.

"I take it the interview went well."

"As well as it can go," I reply to the familiar voice I have spoken to over the past year.

"We can't meet or take calls through your phone when you start. Delete my number; we can't take chances or get caught."

Pfft. He's the one to tell me.

"Wait, how are you sure I'd get the job?"

"Oh, I'm sure, darling. Get ready to get to work next week," he says and hangs up.