20

20
Arlene
"I can be anywhere, Stepmother," I replied, my voice dripping with sarcasm as I plucked the folder from her hands. "Nice design. I wonder why I didn't see this at all. Dad said you submitted it to me, but I thought I must have missed it."
Mirela's face paled, the color draining as if she had been caught red-handed. It was obvious what she was trying to do—she wanted Daisy to land a better position in the company. A position I had explicitly denied her by placing her in an internship role. Daisy, for all her charm, needed proper guidance, and I wasn't about to let nepotism dictate her career.
Mirela let out a dry laugh, waving her hand dismissively. "Oh, dear, it must have slipped my mind to send it to you. Such an oversight on my part."
"I thought as much," I replied smoothly. "Daisy could have done the submission herself."
Mirela stared at me, her usually composed demeanor crumbling under my scrutiny. I leaned against the desk, flipping through the sketches.
"She will do the submission herself next time. She's just not used to submitting to anyone."
I bet Dad is looking at both of us right now.
"Oh, I see," I said, my tone laced with understanding as I tilted my head. "This sketch looks… competent. Daisy did this?"
Mirela's laugh was dry, almost brittle, as she waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, yes. I must have forgotten to mention what a good designer she is. I'll make sure to—"
"Hmm," I interrupted, not letting her off the hook so easily. "That's odd. Tell me, Mirela, did Daisy really sketch this? It's impressive work… I mean if it's hers."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, her grip tightening on the folder she held. Mirela's lie was unraveling before my eyes, and we both knew it. Daisy wasn't cut out for jewelry design—that much was clear. Her true passion was music, something Mirela had crushed underfoot in pursuit of her own ambitions.
I remembered when we were kids, and Daisy would play her guitar, her voice soft and melodic as she sang with dreams in her eyes. Mirela had stripped that dream from her, forcing her into a world she didn't belong to. It was tragic, really, but also infuriating.
"Of course it's hers," Mirela said, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Oh, wonderful," I said, leaning forward slightly. "Is that another sketch you've got there? Perhaps we can go through it together. I'd love to see more of Daisy's work."
She hesitated, her fingers clenching the edge of the folder. "Of course," she said, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
I studied her closely. Mirela was a master manipulator, but I wasn't the naive little girl she used to scold for spilling juice on her designer carpet. I saw through her lies, and this was no exception.
"But this is just an old draft," she added quickly. "Nothing worth your time."
Before I could press further, my father looked up from his tablet. "What's going on here?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity but lacking any real concern.
Mirela seized the opportunity to change the subject, her lips curving into a forced smile. "Oh, nothing important. I was actually hoping to discuss the party preparations with you, darling." She turned to me, her smile sharpening. "I'll send the sketch to you later, Arlene."
I smiled at her and checked my watch, noting the time. It was almost time to leave for the company.
"Very well then," I replied, standing up, which caught my father's attention again.
"You're leaving? You were going to tell me something."
Mirela's stance changed immediately. Before I could answer, she stepped in, her timing almost too perfect. "Oh, Eric, you really must come and try on your suit for tonight's party. We need to ensure it fits perfectly."
I could see through her tactics as clearly as glass. She didn't want me to have a private moment with my father, especially not now because she likely thought I had something to tell Dad about her. Her interruptions were as calculated as they were annoying. But I wasn't about to let her rattle me.
"We'll talk about this later tonight, Dad," I said, giving him a reassuring smile. Mirela's eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing.
I smiled at her, fully aware of her intentions. "We'll talk tonight, Dad," I repeated firmly before walking out of the room.
—
"An invitation to partner with you came in this morning, ma'am," Matilda announced beside me in the car.
"Anyone from Mirela's corner?" I asked, glancing out of the window.
"No, ma'am. It's a new one directed to you from Martinez Holdings in Hawaii."
Cole?
Without thinking twice, I said, "Reject it!"
"Yes, ma'am," she replied, typing away.
Let him have a taste of rejection.
The car ride to the company was uneventful, but I found myself craving a good cup of Americano. "Matilda, stop at the nearest café."
"Would you like me to get it for you, ma'am?" Matilda asked, always efficient and eager to help.
"No, I'll get it myself," I replied. "The smell and the look of the process are half the pleasure."
When we arrived, Matilda opened the car door for me, and I stepped out, adjusting my sunglasses. The café was cozy and bustling, the scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air.
I placed my order, paid quickly, and stood at the counter waiting. As I waited, my phone buzzed in my bag. Pulling it out, I saw Olivia had sent me a message with a collection of beautiful designer clothes.
Olivia: Take a look at these! Which one do you like best?
I smiled, typing back quickly.
Me: They're gorgeous. You choose; I trust your taste. Surprise me.
As I hit send, my coffee was ready. I grabbed the cup, the heat warming my hands, and turned to leave. My attention was still on my phone, Olivia's reply lighting up the screen. That's when it happened.
I collided with someone, the impact jolting me and sending my coffee splashing all over a long brown jacket. A gasp escaped my lips as I looked up, an apology already forming—
"Oh my God," I gasped, looking up in horror.
Heart-wrenching hazel eyes stared back at me, the kind of eyes that seemed to pierce straight through my soul. His features were strikingly handsome, almost unreal, with a sharp jawline and a well-groomed appearance that screamed elegance.
"I—I'm so sorry," I stammered, completely thrown off by his presence. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn't place where I'd seen him before.
His lips curved into a slight smirk, one that held amusement but no trace of anger. "It seems I've been marked by you," he said, his voice deep and smooth.
I blinked, trying to gather my thoughts, but my mind refused to cooperate. I had to say something, anything, but all I could do was stare at him, my heart racing inexplicably.
Where had I seen him before?
And why couldn't I look away?