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"Based on what?" I demand. "You haven't even looked at her résumé."
"Don't need to." Jace settles more comfortably against Elias. "He likes her, and you already hate her. Sounds promising to me."
Elias chuckles, entirely too pleased with himself. I pick up my chopsticks and return to my dinner, ignoring the satisfied looks being exchanged across the desk.
One interview. That's all I've agreed to.
Elias can bring in whoever he wants, but qualifications on paper mean nothing if she can't keep up with the demands of this office. Six assistants have already proven that.
If Sloane Harper wants to be the seventh, she'd better come prepared.
three
Pressure Test
Fog threads between the glass towers as I step off the bus. The air is sharp enough to taste.
My heels find the concrete. Click. Click. Click. Steadier than I feel.
“Stop fidgeting,” Trey had ordered this morning. “You look like a million bucks.”
Two hours of his fussing produced a black pencil skirt, cream silk, heels engineered for damage, and burgundy lips. When I reached for a hair tie, he snatched it away.
“The bun makes you look like somebody’s old-ass secretary. Leave it down and rock that expensive goddamn halo.”
He wasn't wrong. The woman reflected in SOLAÉ's mirrored facade looks ready for whatever they're about to throw at her. Hopefully, she can convince the rest of me.
The lobby doors open and waterfall light scattering across the marble. Reception is empty. Guess little miss polish didn’t survive the selection.
"Fifteen minutes early."
The voice comes from somewhere behind me, low and unhurried, and my pulse does something embarrassing as I turn to find Elias standing near the elevators.
He doesn't move to greet me. He just looks, once, and whatever he finds, he keeps to himself.
My throat goes dry. "I didn't want to be late."
"Good." A gesture toward the elevator. "This way."
The gold doors open, and I follow him inside. Even the elevator feels smaller with Elias in it.
The we stop on one of SOLAÉ's executive meeting floors, all glass, gold trim, and carpet plush enough to swallow my heels. I keep pace until we stop at a corner conference room and holds the door.
Two men are already inside.
Nathaniel Blackwell stands at the windows, dark hair pushed back like he's been at it for hours. Navy suit immaculate in a way that reads less like vanity and more like control. Wire-rimmed glasses framing gray, almost silver, eyes that give me an assessing look before returning his attention to the file in his hand.
Jace Narváez is draped across his chair like a model in Elle Magazine. Dark curls, gold at his throat, a charcoal button-down hanging open over tattooed skin. He looks like the reason for the additional clauses they added to the employee handbook.
Elias takes the center seat, looking irritatingly at home.
I studied all three of them before today. Profiles, interviews, whatever the internet would give me. None of it mentioned what it would feel like to be in the room.
"Miss Harper." Nate's voice slices through the air. "Sit."
I take a seat and he opens my file and scans it like he’s already decided Elias wasted his time. “What qualifies you for a position at SOLAÉ?” he asks, already sounding unimpressed.
"My business degree, five years supporting senior executives, and another two years managing VIP client relations for a smaller luxury hospitality firm here in San Francisco," I answer evenly. "Most of my work involved anticipating problems before clients noticed them."
