The morning began with burnt toast, a missing sock, and a pigeon that seemed personally offended by Layla's existence.
She stood at the bus stop in her favorite secondhand trench coat—a reworked vintage number with mismatched tartan cuffs she'd sewn on herself—clutching a coffee cup with lipstick smudged along the rim and hopeful delusions about punctuality. Her phone buzzed violently in her pocket, vibrating with the fury of ten ignored emails and three missed calls from Mira.
Mira: Girl, if you're not at that interview in the next 20 minutes, I'm sending your CV to a llama farm in Wales. You're wasting brilliance.
Layla snorted. "Honestly, I'd rather design sustainable ponchos for llamas than beg another fashion house to let me be their unpaid slave."
The bus screeched to a halt, puffing out a tired wheeze of exhaust. She stepped on, nodded to the driver, and made her way to the back, trying to ignore the stain on her trousers she'd only noticed as she sat down. Of course it was on the tweed. The tweed!
The city blurred past, a cocktail of red brick terraces, chicken shops, estate agents, and pretentious cafés that tried to charge eight quid for oat milk and air. South London never pretended to be glamorous, but it was real—and Layla clung to "real" like a lifeline in a world obsessed with filters and private clubs.
Today's destination, however, was the opposite of real.
Sterling Hall.
A place that sounded like it required one to be born into possession of at least three titles and a purebred spaniel.
Layla didn't know much about the Sterling family, only that they were loaded, powerful, and terrifyingly influential. The event assistant role she was interviewing for was technically with the Sterling Foundation, some fancy offshoot charity they funded. Layla had applied on a whim—well, more like in a post-breakup haze with a half-bottle of Merlot in her veins and Mira egging her on.
"You could do it in your sleep," Mira had said. "Just smile, nod, and pretend you know what a canapé fork is."
Layla wasn't entirely sure she did, but she was desperate enough to try.
—
Fifteen minutes later, she stood in front of Sterling Hall, mouth slightly ajar.
It was less "building" and more statement. Massive Georgian columns, pristine white stone, and iron gates that looked like they had an opinion about who was allowed in.
She stepped inside, boots echoing against the polished marble floor, immediately regretting everything about her outfit—from the neon green thread on her lapel to the slightly wonky hem on her self-altered trousers.
A receptionist with the cheekbones of a Renaissance statue greeted her with a tight smile. "You're here for the assistant interview?"
Layla nodded.
"Take the lift to the third floor. Lady Sterling is expecting you."
Lady Sterling. God, even the name made her want to curtsy ironically.
—
The interview was… surreal.
Lady Evelyn Sterling was elegance weaponised. Dressed in navy silk with pearls at her throat, she stared at Layla like she was both curious and mildly allergic to polyester. The questions were pointed, the silences sharper. Layla answered honestly, threw in a joke or two, and left with a polite nod and zero expectation.
But it wasn't over.
Not quite.
As she walked back through the echoing corridors, trying to find the exit without looking like she was casing the place, she heard music.
Live music.
Beautiful, aching piano notes trickled through the corridor like liquid silver—intense, melancholic, and oddly modern. It didn't sound like a recording. It sounded personal.
She followed the sound, drawn like a moth. Down a side hall, past a tapestry that probably cost more than her flat, until she reached a slightly ajar door.
Curiosity pried it open.
Inside was a music room—sunlight streaming through tall windows, instruments lining the walls, and at the grand piano sat a man.
Back straight. Sleeves rolled. Fingers dancing.
He didn't see her. Or maybe he did, and just didn't care.
Layla froze. The music was raw, emotional—a mix of classical structure and something more rebellious. She recognised the emotion before the style.
This is someone hiding something, she thought. This is someone playing his truth.
Then, mid-note, he stopped.
Silence.
He turned.
And Layla promptly dropped her coffee on the antique floor.
"Oh my God," she blurted, mortified. "I am so, so sorry—I didn't mean to—"
The man stood, eyes cool and unreadable. Dark hair, sharp jaw, that tailored I'm-wealthy-but-depressed look. He walked toward her with measured, almost predatory grace.
"You're not supposed to be here," he said, voice deep and strangely calm.
"Right. I know. Sorry. I heard music and… I followed it. Like a creep. Definitely creepy. I'm leaving."
She spun on her heel, slipping slightly on the spilled coffee, and tried to make her grand escape.
"Wait."
She paused.
"You're the interviewee, aren't you?" he asked, a flicker of amusement in his voice.
She turned back slowly. "Yes. Though I assume I've just thoroughly ruined that chance."
His eyes—grey, like a storm deciding whether to rage or not—narrowed slightly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps not."
There was a long pause.
Then he smiled.
A rare, reluctant, devastating thing.
"I'm Adam."
She blinked. "Adam… Sterling?"
His smile didn't widen, but it deepened. "The very one."
Layla stared at him. The heir to one of the richest families in Britain. The man whose piano music she'd just interrupted. The man whose carpet now had a milky coffee stain the size of Essex.
"Brilliant," she muttered. "Guess I'll add 'defiling aristocratic floors' to my resume."
He let out a laugh—quiet, surprised.
It sounded like music, too.
And just like that, the first note of something new was struck.