The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding, and I stepped out, clutching the borrowed black pencil skirt and crisp white blouse I was wearing. A silent prayer escaped me—thank goodness Rebekah had lent me this outfit, though I really ought to start budgeting for my own professional wardrobe.

As I walked along the polished corridor, my heels clicking nervously against the marble floor, sweat gathered at my palms. Of course they did—meeting a billionaire playboy devil boss on the first day is exactly the kind of situation where clammy hands are inevitable.

Not that I was expecting a warm welcome or anything, but a fist bump would really be more my speed right now. Shaking hands in the summer heat? Brutal.

I finally reached the imposing door marked “Nick Sinclair, CEO” and rapped lightly, waiting for a response. None came.

“Ms. Stewart?” a voice called out behind me. I turned to see the guy from yesterday—Trent. He was tall, with a shy, almost bookish vibe amplified by the thick black frames of his glasses. His hair was platinum, standing out against a warm olive skin tone.

“Mr. Sinclair will be here shortly,” Trent said, his tone apologetic yet professional. “You’re welcome to wait in his office. He’ll speak with you first, then I’ll give you a tour of the building.”

I nodded, forcing a smile. “Thanks.”

Trent hesitated, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Also... I wanted to apologize for yesterday.”

I shrugged. “It’s okay. You were just doing your job.”

His lips curled up in relief. “No hard feelings, then?”

A small laugh escaped me. “Well, unless you count being left to stew in a fancy waiting room as a grudge, I’m good.”

He chuckled, but the moment was cut short when a sharp clearing of the throat drew our attention.

Turning, we spotted Nick Sinclair himself standing with arms crossed, his jaw tight and eyes narrowed. The air around him seemed to shrink in on itself, heavy with tension and barely contained frustration.

Great. Someone had clearly pissed him off right before my big day. Lucky me.

“Mr. Sinclair,” Trent began cautiously.

“I told you to have her wait in my office,” Nick snapped, eyes flicking coldly to me before returning to Trent. “Not stand out here chatting.”

Trent’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, sir,” he muttered, glancing uneasily at me.

I swallowed hard and glanced at Nick’s office door, the heavy wood and glass separating me from the man who just made my life infinitely more complicated. Blake Andrews was a breath of fresh air compared to this storm.

“Ms. Stewart,” Nick said, voice low and commanding, “I’ll be with you shortly. Please wait inside.”

I nodded before stepping inside, closing the door with a soft click behind me. The room was sleek and intimidating—dark mahogany desk, floor-to-ceiling windows casting sharp light shadows, and the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air.

My heart hammered as I settled into one of the chairs in front of his desk, trying to steady my breathing. I looked down at my hands and caught sight of the silver ring on my right index finger, a gift from my mom on my sixteenth birthday. I often fiddled with it when nerves got the better of me.

Today was no exception. I slipped the ring off and back on, trying to focus on something small and real amidst the whirlwind in my chest.

But then, with a sudden slip, the ring escaped my fingers and skittered across the floor, disappearing beneath the desk.

“Oh no,” I whispered, crouching awkwardly to reach under the heavy desk. My arms barely fit in the narrow space, and I felt the cool floor scrape against my knees.

Peeking over cautiously, I glanced at the closed door, hoping Nick was still occupied elsewhere. I edged around the side where the drawers offered just enough room to squeeze under and grab the ring.

Heart still racing, I finally clasped the ring between my fingers and crawled back out, sitting up straighter and giving a small sigh of relief. The moment was a little humiliating, but at least I’d saved my mom’s cherished gift from vanishing forever.

Just then, the door opened, and Nick stepped in, his gaze immediately locking onto me. His expression was unreadable, a dangerous mix of curiosity and something else—maybe amusement, maybe frustration.

“You’re not afraid to get a little dirty on your first day,” he said, voice low but with a teasing edge.

I flushed but lifted my chin. “I’m resourceful,” I replied, trying to sound steady.

He smirked, the kind of smile that made his blue eyes sparkle with mischief. “Good. You’ll need that.”

And just like that, the formidable wall of Nick Sinclair seemed to crack ever so slightly, and I realized this job was going to test every ounce of my courage and wit.