"Yes, Mr. Riggs. Girl, you don't have time!"
The woman shoved the dress into her hands.
"I'm doing all of this because I was the one who suggested he take a new secretary. And if you fail to impress him, I'll be the one paying for it. So get into this dress and stop acting dumb. If anything goes wrong, both our jobs are on the line."
She snapped and stormed out.
Winter's lips parted, unable to speak. She looked down at the dress.
Mr. Riggs? Secretary?
What the hell was going on?
A knock sounded on the door.
"I expect to see you in three minutes!" the woman barked.
Winter moved instantly, stripping out of her sweater and jeans and slipping into the mini dress. It was tight. And short. Extremely short. It barely hid the scar on her upper thigh. She pulled on the jacket and tugged the hem of the dress downward, trying to hide the peek of the scar creeping out from underneath.
She took her CV out of her tote bag.
She had plan to apply for a data analyst role. How could she possibly be getting interviewed as a secretary?
Should she say something?
Was she walking into a bigger disaster by playing along?
It was obvious the woman had mistaken her for someone else. What if the real candidate showed up and had her arrested for impersonation?
She paced the restroom, biting hard on her thumb—so hard it began to bleed.
Another knock came, louder this time, more aggressive.
"Come out now or I'll drag you out myself!" the woman barked again.
Fuck it. Whatever was going to happen, let it happen.
At least she could finally meet Darren Riggs. See him up close. That is… if he was the one doing the interview.
Was he?
She stepped out, clutching her CV tightly to her chest.
The woman's gaze fell on her—and darkened. For a second, Winter thought she'd been caught. That the real girl had shown up and everything was about to collapse around her.
But then the woman's expression softened again.
"You need a lip gloss," she said abruptly, pulling one out.
Before Winter could react, she was already applying it on her lips. Then the woman stepped back to assess her.
"You're pretty," she suddenly whispered. "I hope your boyfriend tells you that every chance he gets."
She didn't wait for a response. She turned and started walking.
Winter followed quietly, her sneakers whispering over the marble floor.
The woman suddenly stopped at the front desk.
"Grace, lend her your heels," she said to the brunette receptionist.
"Oh no, there's no need..." Winter started to say, but the woman cut her off.
"You don't think I'm going to let you show up like you just excused yourself from a soccer match, do you?"
"Who is she?" Grace spat, her tone sharp and condescending.
"The new secretary. Your heels?" The woman opened her palm expectantly.
Grace grunted disapprovingly, threw a pointed glare at Winter, then bent down and straightened back up with a pair of Louboutins in hand.
"Clean it when you're done," Grace muttered coldly.
Winter accepted the heels from the woman, took off her worn-out sneakers, and slid the designer shoes onto her feet.
The woman led her through the double doors they had swept past earlier, and they burst into a hallway that stretched slightly, wall lights reflecting off both sides of the narrow path. The double doors were also soundproof; the sound from the TV in the waiting area was swallowed up the moment the woman shut them behind her.
There was an office—about the size of her bedroom—a mahogany desk and a swiveling chair positioned right in the middle. Just when she began to think it was probably Mr. Riggs' office, a far more enormous one came into view—the size of their parlour in Cross mansion. The office door was tinted.
Anxiety crept up her throat as the woman took out her ID card, pressed it against a surface, and the panel blinked green.
"Identity confirmed."
An automated voice spoke through the door.
The door slid open, revealing the most elite, expansive office she had ever seen. Not even the ones in movies could compare. The air conditioning chilled her insides, sending a shiver down her spine.
The space looked like a lounge in a hotel penthouse.
A mini-bar section.
Three velvet-black couches.
A center table as large as the one in the Cross living room.
A flat screen TV playing a news channel in a soft murmur.
And finally—his desk.
It stood elevated in a separate area, made of sleek black glass—the very same one she had seen in flyers. You had to climb three steps just to reach it.
The wall beside the desk suddenly opened, and a figure stepped out.
Her jaw dropped.
He looked even better than he did in the papers. Tall. Lean-muscular. Skin like milk.
And when he looked up, she swallowed.
His blue eyes had to be the brightest thing in the room. Dressed in a neatly tailored black three-piece suit.
They assessed her slowly—carefully—then dropped to her outfit. Finally, they slid toward the woman.
"Miss Dorothy," he acknowledged the woman, voice smooth but firm. "You're late."
"My apologies, Mr. Riggs. Traffic held her down, and she barely managed out." Dorothy looked toward Winter.
"She is ready for the interview, Mr. Riggs."
Mr. Riggs picked a paper and walked toward the printer, which sat near the coffee machine. He placed the paper on its surface.
"Thank you for your help. I'll take it from here," Mr. Riggs said.
"My pleasure, Mr. Riggs," Miss Dorothy replied.
Her gaze flicked to Winter. She mouthed a "Good luck," then stepped out of the office.
The moment it was just the two of them in the space, Winter's heart picked up its pace.
"What is your name?" Mr. Riggs asked as he retrieved the freshly printed papers.
"Uhm... W-Winter Cross."
"And you are from?"
"Austen. Born and bred."
Well... she didn't actually know if she was born in Austen—she didn't know her parents. But she couldn't tell him that. He would definitely kick her out the moment he learned she was an orphan.
He settled into his swiveling chair and regarded her carefully.
"Okay. Winter, serve me coffee."
What?