I felt my heart slam against my ribcage. My mouth went dry. It couldn’t be—no, surely not that Adrien.
But the na glared back at like it knew exactly what it was doing.
Adrien. The... The guy from the line. The VIP jerk. The annoying, arrogant, extrely outrageous man who—
The sa man who had carried like I weighed nothing.
Who had called his girlfriend in a room full of socialites?
Who had whispered, "This has affected all future relationships," like he ant it.
That Adrien?
I must be wrong... right?
I barely had ti to process the whirlwind of emotions threatening to pull under when the door opened again.
"Mr. Walton will see you now."
And just like that, I stepped into what was suddenly so much more than a job interview.
I stepped through the door─already bracing myself for nerves, every step I take feeling heavier than the last. The air in the room was cool, expensive. It slled faintly of cedar wood and sothing sharper—like ambition bottled and sold in luxury stores.
And then I saw him.
Adrien Walton.
My breath caught in my throat.
No way.
The door clicked shut behind , and the sound echoed like a judgent.
He is sitting behind the desk of a top-tier executive office like so kind of corporate prince─like he owned the world─and maybe he did, in this building, in that suit. His hair was perfectly ruffled, his jaw sharper than I rembered, and those sa unreadable eyes locked onto mine the second I entered.
He didn’t look surprised to see .
I, on the other hand, nearly choked on my own spit.
I stood frozen for a beat, but he didn’t even flinch.
Didn’t smirk.
Didn’t raise a brow.
Didn’t even blink.
Nothing at all!!!
Just looked up, eyes cool, unreadable. He didn’t say my na. No recognition. No hint that he rembered at all.
"Have a seat," he said simply, his voice calm, impersonal.
I blinked. Wait─what?
That was it?
No egoistic comnts? No "didn’t expect to see you here"? Nothing?
I moved stiffly to the chair across from his desk, my brain rotating as I sat. He didn’t look at again right away, just flipped through the folder in front of him—my resu, I guessed.
"Your na is Isabella Miller, correct?"
I nodded slowly. "Yes."
Still no flicker of recognition. His expression remained completely neutral.
"You’re applying for the Personal Asssistant position. Let’s begin."
And just like that, we were in it.
No acknowledgnt of the club. No comnt about the hallway standoff. No raised eyebrow at the fact that I’d once called him arrogant to his face.
Nothing.
He asked questions—direct, crisp, focused on qualifications and responsibilities. I answered them like I was in a trance, thrown off by the cold professionalism coming from soone who had, not that long ago, called intense with that unbearable grin on his face.
But now? He didn’t even look amused. He looked... indifferent.
And sohow, that shook more than if he’d mocked right out the door.
I straightened my posture, forcing my voice to stay steady even though my mind was a war zone of confusion. Personal assistant. Right. This was about the job. I needed to focus.
Adrien─no, Mr. Walton─kept things strictly professional, eyes moving between my resu and his notes.
"Can you handle high-pressure environnts?"
"Yes," I said, folding my hands neatly in my lap. "I’ve juggled multiple jobs, school, and family responsibilities for the past three years. I’m used to pressure."
He gave a small nod, but his face didn’t change. Not even a twitch.
"Are you available to travel on short notice?"
"Yes."
"Can you handle discretion?"
I tilted my head slightly, curious. "Of course." I an I’m currently being discrete by playing the I don’t know you ga with you.
"Good."
He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t smile. Not once did he so much as blink at the irony of ──sitting across from him, dressed in my best blouse, interviewing for a job where I’d be managing his life.
And I—miraculously—matched his energy. I didn’t ntion the encounters. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t let the ache in my gut rise past my throat.
I answered. I kept eye contact. I gave perfect, confident replies.
I wanted this job.
And if the universe wanted to toy with by putting him in the boss’s chair, fine.
Let it.
Eventually, he set the resu down and leaned back slightly.
"That’ll be all for now. You’ll be contacted by the end of the week."
I stood. "Thank you for your ti, Mr. Walton."
"Miss Miller," he replied with a curt nod, already turning back to his computer.
No handshake. No goodbye smile. Just cold steel professionalism.
I walked out the door with my spine straight and my heart pounding.
It wasn’t until I reached the lobby, heels clicking on marble tile, that I exhaled the breath I’d been holding.
What. The. Hell.
I stepped outside into the chill city air and let the door close behind . My hands were shaking, and not from the cold.
He didn’t even blink. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t acknowledge a thing.
Why?
Was he pretending? Did he really not rember ? Or was this so power play?
I started walking, letting the city noise blur around as I tried to figure out what the hell just happened.
******
Adrien’s pov
I hated clubs.
The noise. The crowd. The forced grins and artificial charm.
But apparently, the CEO of Albrecht Solutions loved them.
"Let’s keep things casual," he’d said on the phone earlier. "et at LeVert tonight. 10 sharp. We can talk business over a few drinks."
Casual my ass. Nothing about clubbing scread professionalism to , but this deal had been in the pipeline for months, and I wasn’t about to lose a multi-million-dollar contract over my distaste for neon lights and loud noises.
Still, the idea of walking in there alone, into a place that reeked of sweat and desperation, wasn’t appealing. Which is why I texted Caron.
You and Liam still harassing about clubbing?
His reply ca in seconds: Duh. You finally giving in?
et at LeVert. Ten. You’re tagging along.
I could practically hear his annoying laugh through the screen.
When I pulled up in the sleek black SUV, they were already waiting by the curb, dressed like they’d stepped out of a magazine ad—too much cologne, too much ego.
"Told you he’d cave eventually," Liam said, climbing into the front seat.
"I’m not here to party," I muttered, adjusting my cufflinks. "I have a eting with Albrecht’s CEO. You’re just backup."
"Backup?" Caron raised a brow from the back seat. "You make it sound like we’re your bodyguards."
"You’re loud and flashy. You’ll keep people off my back while I handle the actual work."
They laughed, but I ant every word. I didn’t trust clubs. Not the kind of people they attracted, and not the kind of deals that went down in them. Too ssy. Too exposed.
Outside LeVert, the bass thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat. The line to get in snaked around the block, filled with people desperate to prove sothing.
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