Chapter 4: A Face I Tried to Forget

ISLA'S POV

One year later…

I stood in front of the towering glass building, my heart beating faster than Louboutins strutting down a runway.

This is it. The door I’ve been chasing for years.

Today, I started my internship in the fashion merchandising division of Eleanor Rowe—one of the most prestigious European high-fashion brands, part of the Preston Group.

Sure, it’s just an internship. But it’s my entryway into a world I’ve only ever admired from glossy Vogue spreads and Paris catwalks.

I sent a selfie to Maya. Peach blouse tucked into fuchsia palazzo pants. Nude pumps. Victoria Beckham shoulder bag. Brown hair styled in loose waves. Statement earrings—bold, but intentional.

Maya replied almost instantly: “You look expensive. Good. Now go get that dream.”

I smiled. Not a polite, forced smile, but the smile that came when I realized that I was finally standing in the life I had always dreamed of. And I’m ready to be destroyed by expectations.

***

Nola was my former senior at VIVID Magazine—the local fashion mag where I used to work as a freelance stylist. She knew all about my borderline: obsessive love for Eleanor Rowe, the luxury brand about to open its flagship store in London.

“Isla! You haven’t changed a bit!” she exclaimed when I arrived in the lobby. “Thank God you didn’t ghost me.”

“Please,” I replied. “I’d sell a kidney just to style Eleanor Rowe’s window display.”

She laughed, but there was something behind it—guilt, maybe.

“Listen, I know this isn’t exactly ideal for someone your age and talent.”

She wasn’t wrong. At 26, most of my friends had already slapped “Manager” next to their names on LinkedIn. And here I was, starting from the bottom again as an intern. But I’ve never been the kind of woman who gives up just because of a label.

This isn’t just a job. It’s my doorway to the runway.

***

Eleanor Rowe’s office took up the top five floors of a prestigious tower, right in the heart of Oxford Circus. And the moment the elevator doors slid open on the 27th floor, it felt like I stepped into another universe.

Dusty pink hues washed over everything. Sunlight streamed through glass walls, and the air smelled like high-end espresso. Music hummed softly from hidden speakers. The staff strutted around in Balenciaga sneakers and Comme des Garçons coats like they were in the middle of a shoot.

There was a mini library, a game station, even a ping-pong table: brief escapes from the chaos of deadlines and projects. Hell, even the pantry could rival the best café’s in Notting Hill.

But the real showstopper? The wardrobe room. Don’t even get me started.

I literally forgot to breathe when Nola opened the door to a massive walk-in wardrobe packed with collections from the top-tier brands under the Preston Group.

Eleanor Rowe, Clara Halston, Ashmore Lane, Penrose Atelier. Each brand had its shrine.

I didn’t just want to visit this place. I wanted to belong here.

“This is a fashion temple,” I whispered dramatically.

Nola chuckled and patted my shoulder. “Just wait until you see the 30th floor.”

***

After a round of introductions with the creative and visual merchandising teams, Nola took me up to the 30th floor.

“The serious zone,” she whispered like it was sacred ground.

Here, the glass-walled offices gleamed, each door adorned with gold-plated name tags. The marble floor was so polished that the click of my heels felt almost disrespectful. The London skyline peeked in from the towering windows.

We passed Sunny’s office, the sales director. She was elegance with an edge: blood-red lips, a bob cut sharp enough to shred hesitation. Her eyes said loud and clear, “Don’t f*ck up.”

I gave her a polite nod, adjusting my stride, so my heels wouldn’t echo like a war drum. We moved down the quiet hall toward the last office. Frosted glass door. Gold nameplate: Executive Marketing Director.

A gorgeous assistant at the desk gave a graceful nod. “You can go in. He’s expecting you.”

Nola glanced at me, then knocked lightly. “Sir, this is Isla—our new intern for Eleanor Rowe.”

I stepped in, ready to introduce myself, with my best smile already in place. And then everything shattered.

Behind a massive mahogany desk, sleeves rolled up, a classic timepiece hugging his wrist, sat the man who once melted my body and wrecked my mind.

I was speechless, breathless, and my sense of reality slipped away. I couldn't look away from those dark, sharp, hauntingly familiar eyes.

Julian Wolfe.

Eyes I’d once stared into from inches away. Hovering above me. Behind me. Burning through my tear-glossed lashes from pleasure overload.

“Isla,” he said softly, like he was tasting my name.

Sh*t. I nearly tripped over my heels.

I’d spent an entire year trying to scrub his voice from my memory. Banished the image of his body from every dirty dream. To convince myself that night was just a fleeting illusion.

But now he was here. Sitting in the executive chair of the company I just joined.

“Julian…” I whispered, barely audible.

Goddamn it, my body still remembered him. Heart racing. Palms sweating. The shamefully quick wetness between my thighs.

His eyes stayed on me, unreadable. Like he wasn’t the man who once had me writhing and begging on his sheets.

Nola turned to look at us, brows furrowed. “You two… know each other?”

I opened my mouth. Then shut again. My brain flatlined.

Julian simply gave a faint, perfectly measured smile. Just a hint of wicked beneath the professional polish.

“Yes,” he said. “We’ve met. A while ago.”

My eyes widened. He was lying. Smoothly. Casually. This man wasn’t just an executive: he was a d*mn elegant predator who knew exactly how to hide his tracks.

That same subtle smirk that soaked my panties a year ago, and was now making my knees wobble all over again.

Was this karma?

Or just God playing too cruel a joke?

But the worst part of my body still remembered everything.

How the hell am I supposed to survive this internship with the man who once made me beg for more?