The email arrives at 6:47 AM, and I'm already on my second coffee.
That should tell you everything you need to know about my life. I'm the person who's at her desk before the sun finishes rising, who knows the night security staff by name, who has a change of clothes in her office because sometimes going home just doesn't make sense when there's work to be done.
My mother used to say I was "too much." Too driven. Too intense. Too unwilling to just... settle.
She meant it as criticism. I wear it like armor.
I click the email open, scanning past the corporate letterhead and the VP's carefully worded introduction. My heart starts doing this thing—this stuttering, hopeful thing I've trained myself not to feel too often because hope is dangerous in this industry. Hope gets crushed under budget cuts and reorganizations and men who got promoted because they play golf with the right people.
But this time.
This time.
"—pleased to announce an opening for the position of Senior Operations Manager, effective immediately. Candidates will be selected from our current management team based on performance metrics, leadership capabilities, and—"
I don't read the rest. Don't need to.
Two years. That's how long I've been positioning myself for this exact moment. Two years of seventy-hour weeks, of managing crisis after crisis with a smile, of turning The Meridian Grand's operations department from chaotic mess into a well-oiled machine that runs so smoothly the executives barely notice we exist.
Which is exactly the point. We're supposed to be invisible. The magic behind the luxury.
I learned that my first week here, when I was still working the front desk with a hospitality degree that cost me four years and student loans I'll be paying off until I'm forty. Guests don't want to see the work. They want to experience the result.
Same with corporate, apparently.
My phone buzzes. A text from Shayna, my best friend and the hotel's head of guest relations.
SHAYNA: Did you see the email?????
SHAYNA: This is YOUR job. You know that right?
SHAYNA: I'm manifesting this for you rn. Lighting candles. Sacrificing my almond croissant to the promotion gods.
Despite the anxiety curling in my stomach, I smile.
ME: Save the croissant. I've got this.
I type it with more confidence than I feel, but that's the game, isn't it? Fake it until the faking becomes real. Until you've worked so hard that the confidence isn't fake anymore—it's earned.
I've earned this.
Started as a front desk clerk four years ago, worked my way to front desk supervisor, then lobby manager, then assistant operations manager. I know this hotel inside and out. Know which rooms have the best views, which conference spaces have temperamental AV systems, which high-profile guests prefer extra pillows and which ones will complain if you so much as breathe too loudly near their suite.
I know the staff—their strengths, their weaknesses, who's going through a divorce and needs a lighter schedule, who's saving for their kid's college and wants overtime. I know the systems, the software, the vendors, the contractors.
I know this job better than I know myself some days.
The position should be mine. Will be mine.
I just have to make sure corporate sees what I've already proven.
The morning passes in its usual controlled chaos. A last-minute VIP arrival that needs upgraded accommodations. A plumbing issue on the eighth floor. A complaint from a guest who swears their room doesn't look like the photos online—it does, they just filtered their expectations through Instagram and reality disappointed them.
I handle it all with the same calm efficiency I've cultivated over years of practice. This is what I'm good at. Not the big, flashy gestures. The steady, reliable competence that keeps everything running when it should be falling apart.
By eleven, I'm in my office tackling the month-end reports when my phone rings. Internal line. The VP's assistant.
"Vivienne? Mr. Hartford would like to see you in Conference Room A at one o'clock. He's meeting with the candidates for the senior manager position."
My pulse kicks up. "I'll be there."
"Great. And Vivienne?" Her voice softens slightly. "Good luck."
I hang up and immediately pull up my presentation files. I've been preparing for this moment—knew it was coming even before the official announcement. Market analysis. Efficiency improvements. Revenue projections. Staff retention statistics that make our department look like a unicorn in an industry known for brutal turnover.
I've got this.
I have to.
Conference Room A is on the fifteenth floor, all glass walls and leather chairs and a view of Seattle that costs more than most people's rent. This is where decisions get made. Where careers are built or broken over PowerPoint slides and carefully rehearsed talking points.
I arrive ten minutes early because that's who I am. Prepared. Professional. The kind of person you can count on.
Mr. Hartford is already there, along with two other executives I recognize from corporate meetings. They smile when I enter—warm, professional, the kind of smiles that give away nothing.
"Vivienne. Right on time." Mr. Hartford gestures to a seat. "We're just waiting on—"
He stops. Looks past me toward the door.
And that's when my stomach drops straight through the floor.
Because I know who's walking into this room before I even turn around. Know it from the way Mr. Hartford's expression shifts into something approving. Know it from the sudden tension that crawls up my spine like a warning.
Callum Ashford.
Of course it's him.
I turn, keeping my expression neutral even though everything inside me just went to war. He's walking in late—because he can afford to be late, apparently—looking like he stepped out of a magazine spread for "Men Who Run the World." Expensive suit. Perfect hair. That face that would be annoying in how symmetrical it is except it's also just... annoyingly attractive.
I hate that I notice. Have trained myself not to notice.
Doesn't work.
He scans the room, those gray-blue eyes cataloging everything in seconds. And then they land on me.
For a moment—just a fraction of a second—something flickers across his expression. Surprise maybe. Or recognition of what this means.
We're competing for the same position.
Then his mouth curves into this slow, confident smirk that makes me want to throw my presentation binder at his head.
"Vivienne," he says, my name rolling off his tongue like he's tasting it. Testing it. "Should've known you'd be here."
"Callum." I match his tone—cool, professional, giving away nothing. "I'd say the same, but I try not to think about you at all."
One of the executives coughs. Might be covering a laugh.
Callum's smirk deepens as he takes the seat directly across from me. Of course he does. Can't just sit anywhere normal. Has to position himself in my direct line of sight.
"Alright then," Mr. Hartford says, clearly deciding to ignore whatever this is between us. "Let's get started. As you both know, we're looking to fill one senior operations manager position. One of you will be promoted. The other..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to.
The other will stay exactly where they are. Watching someone else get the job they've been working toward. Living with the failure.
I've been working toward this for two years.
But when I glance across the table, Callum's looking at me with this intensity that says he's been working toward it too. That he wants it just as badly.
That he has no intention of losing.
My hands curl into fists under the table where no one can see.
Game on.
Mr. Hartford starts explaining the evaluation process—a two-week intensive where we'll be assessed on everything from crisis management to long-term strategic planning. We'll present proposals. Lead teams. Handle whatever curveballs corporate decides to throw at us.
I'm barely listening. Can't stop watching Callum from the corner of my eye.
Six months. That's how long he's been here. Six months compared to my four years. He transferred from the New York property with this reputation that preceded him—youngest operations manager in company history, turned around a failing location, brilliant strategic mind, destined for executive leadership.
Everyone talked about him like he was hospitality royalty.
I talked about him like he was a pain in my ass.
Because that's what he's been since day one. Questioning my systems. Suggesting "improvements" to processes that already work perfectly. Looking at everything I've built like it's something he needs to fix.
We've clashed in every meeting. Disagreed on every major decision. Maintained this carefully professional hostility that everyone else pretends not to notice.
And now we're competing for the same promotion.
The universe has a sick sense of humor.
"Any questions?" Mr. Hartford asks, pulling me back to the present.
"No sir," I say immediately. "I'm ready."
Callum leans back in his chair, all casual confidence. "Just one. Will we be working together on any of the evaluation projects, or are we competing separately?"
Mr. Hartford exchanges a look with the other executives. "Some portions will be collaborative. We want to see how you work as a team, since the senior manager will need to coordinate across departments."
I barely suppress a grimace. Collaborative. With him.
Perfect.
The meeting wraps up with handshakes and those same meaningless smiles. I gather my materials, ready to escape back to my office and the controlled environment where Callum Ashford doesn't exist.
But of course, he catches me at the door.
"Vivienne." His voice is low enough that only I can hear it. Close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and woody that probably costs more than my rent.
I turn. Meet his eyes. Refuse to step back even though he's standing closer than professional distance suggests.
"What?"
That smirk again. God, I hate that smirk.
"May the best candidate win," he says quietly. His gaze drops briefly—to my mouth, I think, though it happens so fast I might've imagined it. "Though we both know who that is."
The arrogance. The absolute certainty.
I lean in slightly, matching his energy. "You're right. We do."
Then I brush past him, making sure my shoulder connects with his just hard enough to make a point.
I don't look back.
Don't need to see his reaction to know I've rattled him. That underneath all that confidence, he's just as aware as I am of what this means.
One position. Two candidates. Two weeks to prove who deserves it more.
And I've already decided: I'm not losing to Callum Ashford.
Not now. Not ever.
Even if working with him for two weeks might actually kill me.