— I turned to face him, meeting those dark eyes.
— “I bet you work eighty hours a week and sleep even less than I do.” — “Maybe,” a reluctant smile touched his lips. — “But at least I have a choice.”
The truth of those words stung more than they should have. I looked away, watching the city lights blur past the window. We were getting close to my neighborhood, and I saw his expression change as he took in the surroundings.
Old buildings, dim streetlights, graffiti on the walls. It wasn’t the worst place in the world, but it definitely wasn’t the kind of place a guy like Nick Peterson visited. The car stopped in front of my apartment, and I was reaching for the handle when he spoke again.
— “I need a personal assistant. Good pay, flexible hours.” I froze.
Hand still on the door. I slowly turned back to him. — “What?”
— “You heard me.” — Nick pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. — “I need someone to manage my schedule, handle emails, and keep the house running when I’m traveling.”
And you clearly need the money and a job that won’t kill you. — “I don’t need charity,” I repeated, but the words felt weaker this time. — “It’s not charity, Angela.”
— Hearing him use my name surprised me until I realized he’d probably seen it on my student ID sticking out of my bag. — “It’s a fair trade. I need help, and you need a better job.”
Nothing more. I took the card, feeling the heavy, expensive paper between my fingers. — “I’m not promising I’ll call.”
— “I’m not asking for promises.” — He leaned back, that aura of controlled power returning. — “Just think about it.”
I got out of the car without a word, watching him disappear into the night. I climbed the three flights to my tiny apartment, dropped my bag on the floor, and stared at the card. Nick Peterson, CEO, with a phone number and office address embossed in gold.
Chris, my roommate and best friend, walked out of her room with her hair in a messy bun. — “You okay? You’re late.”
— “I got into the wrong car.” — I tossed the card on the coffee table and collapsed onto our beat-up sofa. — “And the owner offered me a job.”
— “What?” — Chris grabbed the card, her eyes going wide. — “Wait.”
Nick Peterson? The tech mogul Nick Peterson? — “He’s a mogul?” — I closed my eyes, exhaustion pulling at me.
— “Angela, he’s one of the wealthiest CEOs in the city! And you fell asleep in his car!” — Chris started laughing that loud, infectious laugh of hers.
— “Only you, girl. Only you.” For the next three days, I tried to ignore the card. I went to work, went to class, studied, survived.
But the rent was due. My manager at the diner was cutting hours, and I was so tired I nearly fainted during a midterm. Chris found the card still sitting on the table.
— “You’re an idiot if you don’t call this guy.” — “It’s charity,” I argued weakly. — “It’s a job that pays better and won’t kill you!” — She gave me that look that didn’t accept excuses.
— “Is your pride going to pay the landlord?” It wasn’t, and she knew it. I called the number the next day.
My fingers shook slightly as I dialed. He picked up on the third ring. That deep voice was unmistakable.
— “Peterson.” — “It’s Angela. The girl who hijacked your car.” — I tried to sound confident and probably failed miserably.
There was a pause, then that low laugh I recognized. — “I didn’t think you’d call.” — “I didn’t either, but apparently I need money more than I need pride.”
— Brutal honesty was easier sometimes. — “When can you start?” — “Tomorrow,” I suggested, hoping it wasn’t too soon.
— “Perfect. I’ll send the address. Nine o’clock.” The next day, a car came for me.
Not Nick, just Jack. The driver greeted me politely and drove me to an estate that made me question every life choice I’d ever made. It was stunning.
A sprawling modern home, perfectly manicured gardens, and a fountain out front that probably cost more than my entire education. I felt completely out of place as I walked up to the front door. A woman in her sixties met me with a warm smile.
Her gray hair was pulled into an elegant bun, and she had kind eyes that sized me up quickly. — “You must be Angela. I’m Mrs. Davis, the housekeeper.”
— She opened the door wider. — “Come in, dear. Mr. Peterson is in his study.”
The inside of the house was even more impressive. High ceilings, artwork that looked like it belonged in a museum, and marble floors so polished I could see my reflection. I followed Mrs. Davis down a hallway to a set of double mahogany doors.
She knocked softly. — “Mr. Peterson, Ms. Miller has arrived.” — “Come in.”
— His voice came from the other side, and my stomach did a strange little flip. Nick was sitting behind a massive desk, fingers flying across a laptop, but his eyes looked up when I entered. He was wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that were… distracting.
That sarcastic smile appeared when he saw me, but there was something else in his eyes. Satisfaction? Maybe.
— “You didn’t run away?” — he noted, standing up. — “I need the paycheck,” I replied bluntly.
— “Honestly, I like that about you.” — He walked around the desk, stopping just a bit too close for comfort. — “Shall we discuss the terms?”
