Samantha Carter's fingers tightened around the steering wheel of her silver Chevy Malibu as her eyes darted between the digital clock on the dashboard and the wall of traffic stretching endlessly down Sunset Boulevard.
She slammed her palm against the wheel, muttering through gritted teeth, "Not today, please not today."
Today was the day. The most important day of her career.
In less than forty-five minutes, she had an interview with Sierra Mitchell—the jewelry queen of Los Angeles—and her GPS had just warned her she'd be cutting it dangerously close.
Punctuality was her religion, but the universe clearly hadn't gotten the memo.
First, she'd burned the silk blouse she'd picked out for the interview. Then, she'd charred her avocado toast into something resembling blackened cardboard. To top it off, she'd managed to scorch a piece of her hair with the curling iron.
Her roommate, Riley, had warned her it was "a sign."
"Sam, you should just cancel. Mercury's in retrograde or something," Riley had said, sprawled on the couch in Frozen pajama pants, sipping iced coffee.
Sam had given her a long look, torn between panic and disbelief.
"I don't believe in signs, Riley. I believe in work."
Now, as she inched through traffic, she repeated the same mantra. "Superstitions are for people who don't hustle," she muttered, finally spotting her exit.
By the time she screeched into the underground parking lot of Dare to Dazzle, she had exactly two minutes to spare. Her heart pounded as she fixed her blazer in the rearview mirror, grabbed her Prada briefcase, and stepped out.
She was a vision of quiet power—black jumpsuit, six-inch heels, sleek ponytail, and lipstick the color of ambition.
The receptionist looked up as she approached the marble desk. "Love your bag," she said with a bright smile.
"Thanks. It's got everything I've worked for in it," Sam replied, flashing her a confident grin.
The nameplate on the counter read Paige. Sam committed it to memory.
"You're here for the interview?" Paige asked.
"Yes."
"Top floor—Suite 2003. Third door on the left. Wait until your name's called."
"Got it," Sam said, striding toward the elevator.
The building was breathtaking—white marble floors, modern art sculptures, and walls that gleamed with quiet wealth. Sam forced herself not to gawk.
By the time she reached the waiting room, she realized this was no ordinary job interview. The place was packed with some of the most poised, confident people she'd ever seen—men and women dressed like they'd just walked out of Forbes.
Her chest tightened.
Six years of hard work, endless internships, and late nights in design school had brought her here. She wasn't about to let nerves take over now.
Since she was a kid, Sam had been obsessed with jewelry. While other little girls dreamed of marrying a prince, she'd been sketching diamond settings in the margins of her math notebook.
And now, she was on the verge of her dream job—at Dare to Dazzle, the country's most exclusive jewelry empire.
The billion-dollar brand was co-owned by the enigmatic Mitchell siblings, who had exploded into the luxury scene seemingly overnight. Their background was a mystery. Their rise, unstoppable.
Sierra Mitchell was the creative genius behind their empire—elegant, brilliant, and adored by the press. Her brother, Asher Mitchell, was a different story. A ruthless, drop-dead-gorgeous businessman with a reputation for being as cold as the diamonds they sold.
Sam had read every article about them. She'd even watched Sierra's old TED talk—twice. But Asher? He never appeared in interviews. Never smiled for cameras. His mystery was part of his magnetism.
But this interview wasn't about him.
This was her moment.
She took a seat, crossing her legs, and scanned the room. To her right sat a woman with smudged mascara and red-rimmed eyes. Sam's intuition kicked in immediately.
She leaned over. "Hey," she said softly. "I know it's none of my business, but can I give you a piece of advice?"
The woman blinked in surprise but nodded.
"The guy who dumped you? Total idiot. You look like someone who deserves better."
The woman stared at her. "How did you know?"
Sam nodded toward the faint tan line where a ring used to be. "I read people," she said with a gentle smile.
The woman let out a shaky laugh. "Eight years. Wasted."
"Then today's your day one," Sam replied. "Start with getting this job. I'm Sam, by the way."
"Laura," the woman said, smiling for the first time.
Sam gave a little nod and leaned back, watching as one candidate after another exited the interview room. Some looked devastated, others confused. That gave her confidence a quiet boost.
Every nervous face walking out meant one step closer to victory.
When her name was finally called, her pulse quickened.
"Samantha Carter," the assistant said. "You can go in now."
Sam smoothed her jumpsuit, lifted her chin, and walked toward the door.
She was ready for anything.
Except what she saw next.
Because seated behind the massive oak desk wasn't Sierra Mitchell.
It was Asher Mitchell—in the flesh.
The infamous billionaire she'd read about, the man whose icy grey eyes had graced Forbes and GQ, now staring straight at her.
And for the first time in her life, Samantha Carter forgot how to breathe.