Aria's POV
I woke up before my alarm. My eyes fluttered open to the faint gray light slipping through my curtains. For once, the heaviness in my chest wasn't just dread — it was nerves, a nervous energy that made my heart beat faster than usual. Today mattered. Today could be different.
I swung my legs off the bed and took a long breath, whispering to myself: You can do this, Aria. You have to.
I opened the small wooden box beside my bed and carefully pulled out the only professional outfit I owned: a black skirt that dropped modestly below my knees and a crisp white shirt with tiny pearl buttons down the middle. The clothes weren't new, but today they needed to look new. I set them neatly on the bed and hurried down to the laundry mart to borrow an iron from Mrs. Lily.
"Back again, Aria?" she said with a smile, handing me the iron like she always did.
"You're a lifesaver, Mrs. Lily. Thank you."
I pressed my clothes until every wrinkle vanished, then hung them above my bed as if they were treasures. My thick, curly brown hair gave me more trouble than the ironing. It was shoulder-length and stubborn, a wild mane I had broken countless combs trying to tame. This morning, I managed to smooth it down just enough to look presentable, though the curls still framed my face rebelliously.
Breakfast was a tin of sausages and stale bread rolls, washed down with a cup of cheap instant coffee. It wasn't much, but it gave me just enough strength to quiet the trembling in my hands. By the time my alarm finally buzzed, I was already ready — for once, I had beaten time.
At 6:45 a.m., I left my tiny apartment, boarded the seven o'clock bus, and rode thirty minutes into the heart of New York City.
---
The bus dropped me in front of Sinclair Global Holdings, and I froze. The building was breathtaking. A massive silver skyscraper that stretched into the sky like it owned the clouds. Its glass exterior reflected the rising sun in a way that made it look alive — powerful, cold, unreachable. I swallowed hard.
You don't belong here, Aria, a cruel voice whispered in my head.
But I pushed it down and walked inside.
The lobby was vast, echoing with the clicks of heels against marble floors. A chandelier of crystal hung like starlight above me. At the reception desk sat a slender blonde woman with flawless makeup, dressed neatly in a navy business dress. She looked like she had stepped straight out of a fashion magazine.
"Good morning, ma'am. I'm Aria Hart," I said, trying to steady my voice. "I'm here for an interview."
Her smile was professional but kind. "Good morning, Miss Hart. Interviews are on the eighteenth floor. The elevator's just behind you."
"Thank you."
I had never been in an elevator before. My palms went clammy as the doors slid open with a soft chime. I stepped in cautiously, as though it might swallow me whole. The metal box closed, and I jumped when it lurched upward.
Halfway up, the doors opened again. A tall woman with sleek chestnut hair walked in. Her badge read:
Victoria Hale
Executive Director
Sinclair Global Holdings
My heart almost stopped.
"Good morning," I blurted out.
She turned to me and smiled warmly. "Good morning. What floor?"
"Eighteenth," I said.
She pressed the button, and we rode in silence. I held onto the bar tightly, trying not to panic at the rising sensation in my stomach.
When the doors opened, she said, "We're here," with another gentle smile.
I whispered a shaky, "Thank you," before stepping out.
---
The eighteenth floor was sleek and intimidating. Another receptionist sat behind a smaller desk, her eyes sharp.
"May I help you?"
"Yes, I'm Aria Hart. I'm here for the personal assistant interview."
She gave me a slow, assessing look, her eyes traveling from my old shoes to my hand-me-down blouse. My cheeks burned.
"Have a seat. We'll call you when the boss is ready."
I sat in the waiting area, surrounded by five other women. They looked flawless — tailored suits, manicured nails, perfect hair that glistened under the fluorescent lights. My heart sank. Compared to them, I looked like a charity case.
One by one, their names were called: Miss Beatrice. Miss Callahan. Miss Monroe. Each woman strutted confidently into the opaque glass doors. I sat there for four hours, my nerves unraveling thread by thread.
By the time the receptionist finally called, "Miss Hart," it was noon, and my stomach was a knot of hunger and fear.
---
I stepped through the massive glass doors into a different world.
The office was enormous, decorated in shades of black and silver. A leather couch sat in one corner, and towering plants in polished pots gave the room a quiet elegance. The scent of cedarwood lingered in the air. On the far wall, a window stretched across the skyline, the city sprawling endlessly below.
I was so captivated I almost forgot why I was there.
"When you're finished admiring my office, let me know," a voice said firmly.
I spun around.
He was seated behind a sleek black desk. Sebastian Sinclair.
My breath caught. He was… breathtaking. His almond-shaped black eyes were sharp yet mesmerizing. His perfectly structured face looked as though it had been sculpted from marble. His lips were firm, his jawline clean, his hair immaculately styled. He wore a tailored suit that framed broad shoulders and a commanding posture.
Oh, God.
"Good morning, sir. I'm Aria Hart," I managed.
"Have a seat, Miss Hart." His voice was deep, calm, and cold.
I sat, clutching my bag on my lap.
"Your résumé," he said.
I blinked. "Huh?"
His brows arched slightly. "I asked you twice already. Your résumé."
My face burned. Focus, Aria! I handed him the papers with trembling fingers.
He scanned them silently, his expression unreadable.
"You've only worked at a café?"
"Yes, sir." My voice was barely a whisper.
"You had impressive grades in high school. Why only a community college?"
"Because I couldn't afford more," I admitted, shame weighing on me. "I've been on my own since I was eighteen. I still wanted an education, so a teacher helped me find a college within my reach."
He paused. "Where were your parents?"
"I don't know them."
"So foster homes?"
"Yes, sir."
He rubbed his temple, sighing. "Miss Hart, I admire your perseverance. But the position has already been filled. I don't want to waste your time — or mine."
The words crushed me. Tears threatened to spill, but I forced myself to speak.
"Please, sir," I begged softly. "I'll do anything. Any job. I just… I need this. I don't have anyone, I don't have money, and my rent is due. Please."
My voice cracked, and humiliation burned my throat.
He stared at me for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he said, "Wait."
I froze, my hand on the doorknob.
"I have a proposition for you," he said slowly. "How would you like to be my live-in maid and coffee maker? You have café experience, after all. The pay is generous. You'll have room and board in my mansion."
My heart skipped a beat. "Live… in your house?"
"My mansion," he corrected. His gaze didn't waver.
I blinked. Was he serious? The CEO of Sinclair Global Holdings wanted me — me — to live in his house?
"You wouldn't be alone," he continued. "I already have staff. There's a place for you, if you accept."
My chest fluttered with so
mething between shock and disbelief.
"When can I start, sir?" I whispered.
"Tomorrow morning."
And just like that, my life was no longer the same.