The Blackwood International building looked even more intimidating in daylight.
Its glass walls rose into the morning sky like they had been carved straight out of the city itself, reflecting the sun in hard silver flashes that made me squint as I stood on the sidewalk and stared up at it. For a second, I just stood there with my tote bag clutched against my side, the breeze tugging lightly at the hem of my blazer, and wondered if I had completely lost my mind.
The internship interview.
Right there, in that building.
With Adrian Blackwood.
My fingers tightened around the handle of my bag. I could feel the faint beat of my pulse in my wrist, quick and restless, like my body already knew I was in trouble before my mind admitted it.
"Okay," I whispered under my breath, though no one was listening. My throat felt dry. "You earned this."
The words sounded steadier in my head than they did in my mouth.
I stepped inside.
The lobby was all polished marble, clean lines, and quiet power. Everything smelled faintly of expensive coffee, fresh flowers, and something crisp and expensive that I couldn't name. The air itself felt different here. Cooler. Sharper. Like it had been trained to behave.
My shoes clicked softly against the floor as I crossed toward reception, and every sound seemed louder than it should have been. A receptionist with a neat bun and sharp red nails looked up and gave me a practiced smile.
"Good morning. Can I help you?"
I handed her my invitation letter before I could second-guess myself. My hand was steady enough, but only barely.
"I'm here for the executive management internship interview," I said.
She glanced at the letter, then at me, her expression changing by a fraction. No judgment. Not exactly. Just that brief, respectful attention people gave you when they realized you were either important or about to become important.
"Name?"
"Ava Storm."
Her fingers moved quickly over the keyboard. "Please have a seat. Someone will come for you shortly."
"Thank you."
I walked toward the waiting area with my shoulders pulled a little too straight, and my chin lifted a little too high, the way I imagined confident people walked when they weren't internally trying to climb out of their own skin. A row of sleek gray chairs faced a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, and I chose one near the end. Close enough to the door to escape if I needed to. Far enough to pretend I wasn't nervous.
I set my tote beside me and folded my hands in my lap.
Immediately, my fingers began searching for something to do.
A ring to twist.
A zipper to pull.
A seam to press flat.
Nothing.
I forced my hands still and stared straight ahead, though my eyes kept drifting over the lobby. A few other candidates sat nearby, each trying in their own way to look composed. One man kept tapping his foot so fast the movement blurred. A woman with a sleek ponytail reread her notes so many times that her brows had started to crease. Another candidate sat very straight, face calm, but his knee bounced under the chair like it had its own heartbeat.
I almost smiled.
So, I wasn't the only one pretending.
That helped a little.
Not much.
But a little.
"First time?"
The voice came from my left.
I turned and found a young man standing beside the chair opposite mine, holding a leather portfolio under one arm. He looked about my age, maybe a little older, with kind eyes and the sort of easy confidence that didn't feel arrogant.
"First time what?" I asked.
He smiled. "Interviewing somewhere that makes you feel underdressed even when you're not."
A laugh slipped out before I could stop it.
"It does have that effect."
He sat down across from me but angled his body politely, not invading my space. I noticed that right away. It was a small thing, but small things mattered. People noticed your boundaries when they wanted to. People ignored them when they didn't.
"I'm Ethan," he said, offering a hand.
I took it. His grip was firm, warm, brief.
"Ava."
His brows lifted. "Storm?"
"Yes."
"Well." A faint grin touched his mouth. "That name sounds like it belongs in a boardroom."
I gave a reluctant smile. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation."
"Careful," I said, "those can become compliments very quickly."
He laughed softly, and for the first time that morning, some of the tension in my chest loosened.
Ethan glanced at the folder in my lap. "Hospitality major?"
I nodded. "Hotel management."
"Of course." He tilted his head. "You have the look."
I blinked. "The look?"
"The 'I've spent way too much time studying guest satisfaction metrics and still somehow care about details no one else notices' look."
I stared at him for a second, then laughed again, a little more freely this time.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It isn't." He smiled. "It's rare."
Something in my chest eased at that. People had told me I was serious. Focused. Intense. But rare sounded better. Rare sounded like something worth keeping.
Before I could reply, the air in the lobby shifted.
Not physically. Not loudly.
Just enough.
Enough that the conversation in the waiting area dipped lower. Enough that the receptionist straightened in her chair. Enough that one of the candidates stopped tapping his foot.
I looked up.
And then I saw him.
Adrian Blackwood stepped out from the private elevator at the far end of the lobby, and the world seemed to make room for him without being asked. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him with effortless precision, the kind of tailoring that made rich men look expensive and powerful men look dangerous. His tie was neat, though not rigid, and his shirt collar sat open at the throat just enough to suggest the long day ahead had already begun to loosen him.
He moved with calm authority, not the kind that needed to announce itself. He didn't look around the room like a man expecting reverence. He simply carried the room with him.
My breath caught so sharply it almost hurt.
Four years.
And still, the sight of him hit me as my body had never learned to defend itself.
His hair looked darker in the daylight, a little silver at the temples catching the light when he turned his head. He paused to speak to the receptionist, his expression polite and unreadable, and I found myself staring at the line of his jaw before I could stop. He said something too low for me to hear, and the woman smiled in a way that looked both professional and faintly intimidated.
Then his gaze moved.
Across the lobby.
Across the chairs.
Across the people waiting with their folders and their nerves.
And landed on me.
Everything in my body went still.
My fingers curled slowly into my palms. My pulse started thudding in my throat. He looked at me the way people looked when they were trying to place a memory that had unexpectedly come back to life. His eyes held mine for only a second, barely a second, but in that brief stretch of silence, I forgot the shape of the room, the sound of footsteps, even the air in my lungs.
Recognition flickered first.
Then surprise.
Then something I couldn't name.
His expression didn't change much, not enough for anyone else to notice. But I noticed. I had always noticed.
He gave the smallest nod. Not a greeting, exactly. More like acknowledgment.
Then he turned to speak to one of the executives beside him.
I looked down so quickly I nearly gave myself whiplash.
My heart was beating too hard. I could feel it under my ribs, in my throat, in the tips of my fingers. The skin on my face had gone hot. I tried to breathe through it, slow and careful, but my lungs felt strangely shallow.
Ethan glanced at me. "You know him?"
My head snapped up.
The question was so casual it took me a second to process it.
"Who?"
He nodded subtly toward the front of the lobby.
I followed his gaze, then immediately wished I hadn't.
Adrian was still there, speaking with one of the executives. One hand rested loosely in his pocket while the other held a slim folder. He looked composed again now, all business and control, as though the moment he'd looked at me had never happened.
"Family friend," I said, because that was safe.
Ethan gave a thoughtful hum. "He has the kind of face people remember."
I almost laughed.
If only you knew.