****************Celeste's view****************
Seven years later
"Name?" the front desk lady asked, her fake nails hitting the keyboard.
"Celeste Monroe," I said, trying not to sound shaky. My hands were sweaty, and my bag almost fell.
She looked up, nice but not really paying attention. "Here for the assistant job?"
"Yep."
She typed something and pointed to some fancy black chairs. "Have a seat. Someone will be with you soon."
I sat down. I took a deep breath.
This is my fifth interview since I decided to get back into the job thing.
Every time, it's the same story—a polite no, or just nothing. Being out of work for seven years made my resumé look bad. Seven years of trying to forget something I couldn't.
I really needed this job, like, really bad.
I didn't plan to come to California. It just happened. After New York, after the rumors, after *that* night—I needed to get away, have some quiet, and start over.
I put my hands in my lap, trying to look chill while my heart was going crazy. The receptionist's nails were loud, the elevator kept dinging, people walked by—time felt like it was dragging on.
"Ms. Monroe?"
I jumped a little. A guy was standing there, smiling. He looked like he was in his fifties, wearing a nice shirt and tie, with his name tag clipped on: Harold Kent – HR.
"Yes, that's me," I said, getting up.
"Great. Follow me." He seemed way nicer than the receptionist, which made me feel a bit better.
I followed him through a bunch of glass hallways, trying not to stare at how awesome the place was. Everyone looked so put-together. I felt like I didn't belong there.
"You're meeting with the CEO," Harold said as we walked.
My heart skipped a beat. "The CEO?"
He nodded. "He likes to be involved in hiring. He can be tough, but he's fair."
I gulped, my mouth dry. Tough. That didn't even begin to describe what I was thinking about.
"Here we are," Harold said, stopping at a big wooden door. He smiled. "Good luck, Ms. Monroe."
"Thanks," I whispered.
The door opened, and I walked in.
I couldn't breathe, my heart sank, and suddenly I was twenty-one again, broken in an office, hearing his mom say awful things.
I saw him again.
Lucian Blackwood.
He finally spoke, without looking up.
"Sit."
His voice was serious.
I swallowed and sat down in the chair across from him. My heart was pounding. Seven years… and he doesn't even—
He looked up, his gray eyes burning into me. I gasped.
Lucian Blackwood.
Alive. Real. Even more intense, cold, and dangerous than I remembered.
But he didn't seem to recognize me. Not even a little.
"Celeste Monroe." He said my name slowly, like he was trying it out. He leaned back in his chair, putting his hands together. "Your resumé is… interesting."
"Thank you," I said, my voice cracking.
He raised his eyebrows. "Interesting isn't always good."
My face got hot. "I… I understand."
He looked at the paper again, almost smiling. "You want a secretary job, but you've done a lot of different things. Fashion, office stuff, retail. And then nothing for almost seven years. Why?"
I took a breath, trying not to fall apart. "I… took some time off for personal reasons. I'm ready to work again now."
He stared at me, making me uncomfortable.
For a second, I thought he knew me—really knew me, not just the fake version of myself. I wanted him to remember me, to say my name like he used to, all soft and young.
But he just looked at me, not showing anything.
"You're nervous," he said.
I clenched my hands. "It's a big deal."
He hummed like he was thinking about whether I was telling the truth. Then, he leaned closer, and I got a jolt.
"Tell me, Ms. Monroe," he said, his voice quieter, "why should I hire you?"
I looked back at him, my mouth dry, my memories hitting me hard.
*Because you don't even remember that you're why I left.*
*Because I said I would never see you again.*
But all I said was," Because I'm tough."
Something went across his face… like he was surprised or amused… but then he looked serious again.
He almost smiled, but it wasn't nice. It was like he was interested. Dangerously interested.
"Interesting," he said again.
And I knew—whether I liked it or not, Lucian Blackwood wasn't going to let me go that easily.
His eyes lingered on me far too long, sharp and unreadable, like he was stripping me down layer by layer.
Then, out of nowhere, he leaned forward, elbows on the desk.
"You look like someone ," he said softly.
My heart lurched.
"Who?" I asked before I could stop myself.
His lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. It was a warning.
"That's what I intend to find out."
The silence between us was suffocating. Then he reached for a pen, scrawled something across my resume , and slid it back toward me.
In bold black ink, one word stood out at the top.
MINE.