Mitchell's POV
What the hell did I do to him?
The question circled my mind as I tossed and turned in the ridiculously comfortable guest bed. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his breath on my neck again, saw those stormy garnet eyes boring into me like I held the answers to questions he hadn't asked. The unease sat heavy in my chest, a restless energy that refused to settle.
Interview tomorrow. Sleep, Mitchell. Sleep.
I must have drifted off eventually, because the next thing I knew, pale morning light was filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I shot up, heart pounding, then remembered where I was. Alistair's house.
And I have an interview.
I moved quickly, showering and dressing in my most professional outfit—a simple navy sheath dress that had survived two years of neglect in my attic closet. It wasn't designer, but it was clean and pressed. My hair I pulled back into a sleek low ponytail. Simple. Competent.
Downstairs, Rosie was already humming in the kitchen. I found Liam in his room, sitting on his bed with the patience of a monk, waiting.
"Good morning, Liam. Ready for your bath?"
He looked at me with those unsettling emerald eyes. "I can bathe myself."
"I'm sure you can. But Rosie's making breakfast, and I thought we could keep each other company." I held out my hand.
He considered it for a long moment, then took it. The trust in that small gesture warmed something in me.
True to his word, Liam bathed himself efficiently while I laid out his clothes—a tiny button-down shirt and pressed trousers that made him look like a miniature CEO. He dressed with the same precision, and by the time we reached the dining table, he was immaculate.
Rosie had outdone herself: fresh fruit, omelets, toast, and what smelled like freshly baked pastries. Liam sat beside me and began eating fast.
"Eat slowly, Liam," I cautioned between bites of buttery toast. "You'll choke."
"He's taking after his nanny."
That voice. Low, smooth, with an undercurrent of something I couldn't name. I looked up.
Alistair stood in the doorway, and dear heavens above. He was in a charcoal gray suit today, perfectly tailored, his dark hair falling in sleek waves. The morning light caught those impossible garnet eyes, making them glow like embers. Dashing wasn't the right word. Devastatingly handsome was closer.
What in the hell. I get to see this face every day now?
Then I realized he was looking at me with that same probing expression, and heat flooded my cheeks. I probably had egg on my face or crumbs clinging to my dress. I could feel a stray strand of hair escaping my ponytail. I was a mess, and he was assessing me again.
A napkin sailed through the air and landed perfectly beside my plate. I blinked at it, then at him. He gave a slight nod toward my face. Oh, God. I did have something on my face. I grabbed the napkin and scrubbed frantically at my cheeks.
He sat beside Liam, accepting a cup of coffee from Rosie with a quiet word of thanks. His eyes never left me throughout the exchange.
It was deeply, profoundly disturbing.
I finished my breakfast in record time, eager to escape. "I have an interview. I'll be back this afternoon. Liam, be good for Rosie."
Liam nodded solemnly. Alistair said nothing, but his gaze followed me all the way to the door.
---
The company building was sleek and modern, all glass and steel. I checked my reflection in the lobby doors—clean face, no stray crumbs—and stepped inside with a confidence I didn't quite feel.
The elevator was straight ahead. I was three steps toward it when a sharp voice cut through the lobby.
"Stop."
I turned. The receptionist, a woman with severely plucked eyebrows and an expression of supreme boredom, was looking at me like I'd tracked mud onto her marble floors.
"Excuse me?" I walked back to her desk, giving her the benefit of the doubt. She was just doing her job.
"Employees and visitors use the service elevator in the back. This elevator is for executives only." Her eyes raked over my dress, my simple ponytail, my clearly-not-designer bag. "The back entrance is around the corner. You know, where they bring in the deliveries and dogs."
The implication landed like a slap.
Dog.
"Did you just call me a dog?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
She examined her manicured nails with disinterest. "I think you have a problem with hearing. Dogs and people like you aren't allowed to enter here through the front."
People like me. People who looked poor. People who didn't belong. People who were used to being dismissed.
I'd been called worse by the Turnerstones. But there was something about this woman's casual cruelty, delivered in this sterile lobby where I was supposed to prove myself worthy of a job, that made my blood simmer.
Before I could respond, a voice behind me cut through the tension like a blade through silk.
"So, I'm also a dog?"
I spun around.
Mike stood there, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
He wasn't in the simple driver attire I'd seen before. Today, he was dressed in an impeccable black suit that screamed wealth and power. Italian leather shoes gleamed on his feet. Behind him stood an assistant holding a tablet and a bodyguard with the watchful stillness of a trained professional. He looked like he owned the building. No, he looked like he owned several buildings.
The receptionist's face drained of all color. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
Mike's eyes, warm when they found mine, turned to ice when they landed on Lilian—I could see her name tag now. He didn't speak to her. He didn't need to. The silence was condemnation enough.
Then his attention returned to me, and the ice melted. He opened his arms slightly, a small smile playing at his lips. "Don't you want to hug your big brother?"
Hug? Had our relationship reached that level? We'd only met twice. But the word brother wrapped around me like a warm blanket, and I realized I desperately wanted that connection. Someone who looked at me like I mattered. Someone who called me family without conditions.
I stepped forward and let him embrace me. It was brief, gentle, but it felt like coming home.
When we pulled apart, he patted my head—that same brotherly gesture from before. I glanced at Lilian. Her face was paper-white, sweat beading on her forehead despite the building's perfect air conditioning.
Mike still hadn't acknowledged her existence. He simply turned to me and said, "Looking for Alistair? Come with me."
What does he mean by looking for Alistair? He guided me past the frozen receptionist, toward the executive elevator. The doors slid open silently, and I stepped inside, my heart still racing from the confrontation.
As the doors closed, I caught one last glimpse of Lilian's terrified face. I should have felt sorry for her. I didn't.
Mike pressed a button and turned to me, his expression shifting to something more serious. "You handled that well. But Mitchell..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You're going to encounter people like that more often now. The Wright sphere is different from anything you've experienced. People will judge you by your proximity to power."
"I know," I said quietly. "I've spent my whole life being judged."
He studied me for a long moment, something like respect flickering in his eyes.
The elevator chimed, and the doors opened onto a hallway so luxurious it made the Turnerstone mansion look like a motel. Mike led me toward a set of imposing double doors.
"Alistair owns this company," he said casually, as if mentioning the weather. "Forty percent stake. He's in a board meeting, but he'll want to see you."
I stopped walking. "Wait. This company? The one I was interviewing for?"
Mike's smile held a hint of mischief. "The very same. Congratulations on your interview, by the way. You're early. That's a good sign."
I stared at the doors, my mind reeling. The man whose neck I'd accidentally inhaled last night, whose gaze dissected me at breakfast, whose son I was now nannying—he owned the company where I was applying for a marketing assistant position?
This wasn't coincidence. This was fate playing a very cruel, very complicated joke.
Mike pushed open the doors. "After you, little sister."