A month had passed since that strange night at the party, and things had settled down.
Today, though, Aria and I were at the vet's office. Not exactly the Saturday we had in mind. My dad had called in a favor and asked me to help bathe a dog, and Aria, ever the good sport, tagged along to lend a hand.
The smell of wet fur and shampoo clung to every inch of the clinic, wrapping around me like a reminder of all my life choices. I knelt beside Spencer—the oversized golden retriever who was currently having the time of his life soaking me with splashes as he flopped happily in the tub. My faded black hoodie was drenched. My hair, which I'd attempted to put into a bun that morning, had long since given up the fight and now unruly rebelliously around my face.
"spencer, come on," I groaned, pushing up my sleeves. "This is a bath, not a pool party."
Aria snorted from across the tub, where she was trying—and failing—to rinse the dog without getting splashed. "He's clearly the alpha in this situation."
"He's clearly possessed," I muttered as another wave of water hit my face. "And winning."
Spencer barked and gave a dramatic shake, flinging water in every direction. I yelped and ducked behind a towel.
"Spencer, please. We're trying to make you look presentable," I muttered, dodging another splash and pushing up my sleeves. "Your mom paid good money for this bath, you know."
"He's a dog, Izzy. He thinks we're playing," Aria said.
I rolled my eyes, trying not to laugh. "If he thinks this is play, I'd hate to see what he does for fun."
"You good over there?" my dad called out from across the room. He was bent over a wiggling kitten with a bandaged paw, his voice calm despite the chaos.
"Define good," I called back, wiping my face. "We're surviving, but Spencer is dominating."
He chuckled. "That's my boy."
I rolled my eyes and stood up, squeezing out my sleeves. They clung to my arms, and I probably smelled like wet dog.
We finally got Spencer rinsed and dried, and I slumped onto a bench near the front desk, breathing hard and patting the dog hair off my clothes. Aria flopped down beside me, equally drenched.
Then my phone dinged.
I pulled it from my pocket, wiping the screen with the edge of my hoodie before unlocking it. My heart skipped when I saw the email notification:
Subject: Interview Invitation - Personal Assistant Position at Vantage & Cole
I blinked.
"Oh my God," I whispered.
Aria looked over. "What? You okay?"
I shoved the phone in her face. "Read this. I just got invited to interview for a PA position. At Vantage & Cole. That's like... a real job. A top-tier corporate job."
Her eyes widened. "Wait, seriously? That's huge! I thought you only applied like, once?"
"I did. I didn't think I'd hear back. I just sent it on a whim last month. I almost forgot I applied."
Aria smacked my arm. "Isabella! That's amazing! When's the interview?"
I scrolled down. "Monday morning. 9:30 a.m."
She gave me a look. "You're going."
"Of course I'm going! I just... I don't have a proper outfit. And it's so sudden."
"We'll figure it out," she said, already pulling out her phone. "We'll find something classy. And sleek. This is your dream job, right? Business admin degree finally coming in hot?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah. I've always wanted to work in a professional setting. Be someone's right-hand. Be important."
"Well, you're about to be." She grinned. "No offense to Spencer, but I think you're meant for more than dog baths and soggy hoodies and staying in the bakery."
I laughed. But deep down, I felt it too. A spark of something that had dulled over the past year was starting to glow again. Hope.
I looked at the screen again, rereading the words like they might disappear if I blinked too hard.
PA at Vantage & Cole.
Maybe, just maybe, things were about to change.
And for once, in the best way possible.
****
The day of the interview, I stood outside the imposing skyscraper that houses Vantage & Cole, taking slow breaths as nervous energy coursed through me. The grey sky above mirrored my mood, the city bustling around me. I checked my watch, the seconds ticking by slowly. It was 9:00 sharp, and I was already five minutes early.
I smoothed down my black pencil skirt, feeling the creases on my silk white shirt, before crossing the threshold of the door, my heart skipping a beat. The lobby hit me like a different world—cool, pristine, and impossibly quiet. Chrome fixtures gleamed under the soft lighting, and dark wood paneling gave the place a hushed elegance. I barely had time to take it all in before I was met by a receptionist who looked like she'd stepped out of a lifestyle magazine—flawless nails, flawless hair, flawless smile.
"Good morning," she said, her voice as polished as her manicure. "May I help you?"
I swallowed the nervous lump in my throat. "Yes, I'm here for the...uh... interview," I managed.
The receptionist nodded, her eyes drifting over me, taking in my attire. "Name?"
"Isabella Miller," I replied, my voice steady despite the fluttery feeling in my stomach.
The receptionist consulted a print-out on her desk, scanning the list. "Ah, here it is." She looked up, then nodded with the kind of neutral expression that made it impossible to guess whether I passed some invisible test. "Mr. Walton's secretary will be down to meet you. Please have a seat."
I mumbled a thank you and balanced stiffly on one of the sleek leather chairs by the wall. My knees were locked together, back unnaturally straight, palms damp on my lap.
Other applicants sat nearby, perfectly still in their organized outfits, oozing the kind of confidence I couldn't fake. I tugged on the hem of my blouse and tried not to chew my lip off.
"Isabella Miller?"
The sharp, cold call of my name jerked me out of my thoughts. I got to my feet, smoothing down my skirt once more. "Yes," I replied, my voice steady.
A tall, stern woman in a navy blue pinstripe suit stood at the elevator, a sharp contrast to my black and white attire.
Her heels tapped out a rhythm that matched my rising heartbeat.
"Follow me," she said, turning without waiting.
I nodded, my hands clenching into fists to stop the trembling. "Of course." I followed her into the elevator, the clack of her heels against the floor echoing in the confined space.
The elevator ride was a silent eternity. I could feel the weight of her gaze on me, assessing. I kept my gaze straight ahead, refusing to fidget under her intense gaze.
The ding of the elevator was louder than it should've been. We stepped into a long corridor lined with glass-walled offices, every inch spotless, like success lived here and didn't tolerate fingerprints..
Finally, we stopped at a door.
"Wait here." she said, her voice clipped.
She opened the door to an office, disappearing inside. I took a step forward, the polished floor making my heels sound too loud. The office beyond the door was everything I expected—clean lines, luxury in subtle details, shelves that held more than just books. The kind of place where decisions were made with a signature and a nod.
And then I saw it.
A silver nameplate sitting on the desk.
Adrien Walton.
For a second, the entire room blurred around the edges. I blinked hard, sure I'd read it wrong. I hadn't.
Adrien.
Adrien Walton.