The morning sunlight hit Amelia like an unwelcome slap.
Her lashes fluttered open to the sight of—a ceiling fan.
Her vision adjusted slowly… until it zeroed in on the clock.
10:00 AM.
Her breath stuck in her throat.
"Holy sh—!"
She shot up so fast the world spun. Her head throbbed from the cocktail of cheap vodka. But she had no time to nurse her hangover—she had fifteen minutes to be at Winston International.
Internship.
First day.
Dream job.
And she was about to blow it.
She scrambled off the couch in her wrinkled clothes from last night, nearly tripping over her own feet. Her tiny apartment became a hurricane zone as she sprinted around, brushing her teeth with one hand and yanking open drawers with the other.
She snatched the first things she could find: a soft lilac blouse, crisp but feminine, and a pair of high-waisted black pants that screamed "hire me!" while still allowing her to breathe. Her hair went into a loose bun—messy but chic, she hoped—and she dabbed a touch of blush on her cheeks to hide how dead she felt inside.
Lip gloss. Check.
ID. Check.
Dignity? Somewhere under the couch.
She dashed out the door like a woman possessed.
---
Winston International was a tower of glass and elegance, gleaming under the morning sun like it knew exactly how intimidating it was. Amelia's heels clicked against the marble floor as she ran into the lobby, praying she didn't look like a sweaty, hungover intern who'd almost been run over by a minivan twelve hours ago.
She found the orientation room by sheer adrenaline. Interns stood in clusters, whispering nervously. The air buzzed with excitement and competition.
At the front, a sharply dressed older woman stood with a clipboard in her hand and authority in her eyes.
"I am Ms. Beatrice Langford," she began, voice clear as crystal. "Head of intern operations."
The room quieted immediately.
"There are twenty of you here. Only five of you will be selected for a permanent role."
Murmurs broke out. Amelia swallowed.
"Your work, conduct, and punctuality will be observed closely. The CEO himself may evaluate your contributions. I suggest you treat every moment here like it matters."
Before Amelia could even process the pressure that sentence dropped like a bomb—
The elevator dinged.
And in he walked.
The air shifted. Conversations stopped mid-sentence.
Damien Knight Lancaster.
Amelia's breath caught in her throat.
No. Way.
The man from last night—the mysterious, dangerously charming stranger who helped her home—was here?
No. Not just here.
In a tailored navy suit, eyes like storm clouds and a face carved from sinful dreams…
He was the CEO?!
She instinctively stepped back, heart thudding. As she did, her keys slipped from her bag and hit the floor with a loud clang.
Every head turned.
Including his.
Damien's eyes flicked to the source of the sound. And then to her.
Recognition sparked.
His lips curled into a smirk—one that said, I remember everything.
Amelia bent down swiftly, face flushing. "Apologies," she mumbled, gripping her keys like they might protect her from his stare.
Damien said nothing. But that amused glint in his eyes said plenty.
As the CEO moved to the front of the room with Ms. Langford, chatter picked back up around her.
"Oh my god, he's so hot…"
"I heard he never dates employees—but I'm willing to risk it."
"Forget the job—I'll write his reports on my knees."
Amelia rolled her eyes, pretending to be totally unaffected… while her heart beat like a drum inside her chest.
She didn't want drama.
She didn't want distractions.
She just wanted this internship.
But as her eyes drifted once more to Damien—so calm, so unreadable, so magnetic—
a dangerous thought slid through her mind.
What if trouble looks this good on purpose?