The email was still open on my laptop when Mom knocked softly on my door.
Not the kind of knock that demanded an answer.
The kind that asked.
I didn't need to look up to know she was standing there, probably with one hand resting lightly on the frame, probably already reading my face before I'd said a word.
"Can I come in?" she asked.
I swallowed, eyes still fixed on the screen.
"Yeah."
The door opened with the smallest creak, and the room filled with the scent of her perfume, clean, warm, familiar. It always made me think of safe things. Fresh laundry. Sunday mornings. Home.
Mom stepped in and stopped when she saw the laptop.
Her gaze moved from the glowing screen to my face and stayed there.
Then she smiled.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like she didn't want to scare the moment away.
"Well," she said, folding her arms loosely. "That looks like a very important email."
I laughed once, breathless and uncertain. It came out thinner than I meant it to.
"It is."
She crossed the room and sat on the edge of my bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight. Her eyes stayed on mine, soft and searching.
"You got it."
It wasn't a question.
I nodded anyway.
My throat felt too tight to make the words work properly.
"I got it."
For a second, Mom just looked at me.
Then her mouth curved in a smile that made something ache in my chest.
"I'm proud of you."
The words landed gently, but they still hit hard.
I looked down at my hands, suddenly aware of how tightly I was gripping the edge of my desk chair. My fingers were curled so hard my knuckles had gone pale.
"Thanks," I murmured.
Mom reached out and touched my wrist, her thumb brushing once over my pulse.
"You worked for this, Ava. No one handed you anything."
I nodded, but my eyes stung anyway.
Because that was exactly what I had been afraid of.
That people would think I got the internship because of him.
Because Adrian Blackwood's name could open doors with a glance.
Because his shadow was so large, it made everyone else look smaller.
But this? This email. This opportunity. This was real.
I had earned it.
The thought steadied me more than I expected.
Mom must have seen the change in my face because her expression softened even more.
"Good," she said quietly. "There's my girl."
She stood to leave, then paused at the door.
"Oh," she added, glancing back at me with that knowing look that always made me feel twelve and exposed at the same time. "You should probably eat something before you leave."
My stomach answered with a faint, inconvenient growl.
Traitor.
Mom's eyes warmed with amusement.
"I knew it."
"I hate that you know me this well."
"No, you don't."
I opened my mouth to argue.
Then, I closed it again.
Because she was right.
I did not hate it. Not even a little.
The next morning, the city felt sharper than usual.
Not colder exactly.
Just more awake.
New York always seemed to know when something important was about to happen. The streets moved faster. The traffic sounded louder. Even the wind had an edge to it as it swept between the buildings and caught at my coat.
I stood at the curb outside Blackwood International and looked up.
The glass tower stretched into the pale morning sky, all silver lines and reflections, as if the entire city had been folded into the building and sealed inside.
My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag.
First day.
That was all.
One day.
One step.
But my heart was thudding so hard it felt like I was about to step into a room full of judges.
I smoothed my skirt for the fifth time, then immediately hated myself for doing it because now I was only drawing attention to the fact that my hands would not stay still.
"Okay," I whispered to myself.
A breath in.
A breath out.
"You got this."
I stepped inside.
The lobby was exactly as intimidating as I remembered from the interview, only now it felt even more alive. The marble floor reflected the light in long, clean streaks. The scent of coffee drifted from somewhere near reception. Voices moved in low, polished tones. A woman in a sharply tailored suit strode past with a tablet in one hand and a folder in the other, her heels clicking a fast, purposeful rhythm against the floor.
Everyone here looked like they knew where they were going.
I did not.
Not yet.
At the reception desk, a woman with a calm face and immaculate hair greeted me.
"Ava Storm?"
"Yes."
She smiled and handed me a visitor badge before directing me toward the elevator bank.
"Orientation is on the twenty-eighth floor. Someone from executive operations will meet you there."
"Thank you."
My voice came out steadier than I felt.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. Inside, the mirrored walls reflected me in small, sharp pieces: my blazer, my carefully smoothed hair, the faint tension around my mouth I couldn't quite hide.
I looked like someone who belonged here.
Or at least someone who was trying very hard to.
When the elevator began to rise, my stomach gave a slow, nervous turn.
Each floor passed too quickly.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Twenty-one.
I exhaled through my nose and tried not to think about Adrian.
Which, of course, meant thinking about Adrian immediately.
I pictured his face when he had said, you earned it.
Something warm and difficult moved through my chest.
Not because he had been kind.
He was always kind.
But because kindness from Adrian Blackwood never felt careless.
It felt chosen.
And that somehow made it worse.
The elevator dinged softly at twenty-eight.
I stepped out.
The executive floor was quieter than the lobby, its glass walls letting in a wash of bright morning light. Long corridors stretched ahead, lined with framed photographs of Blackwood International hotels in cities all over the world. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and coffee and something dry and expensive, like paper in a room where decisions were made.
A woman in a navy dress suit was waiting for me near the conference room entrance.
"Ava Storm?" she said, extending a hand.
I shook it.
"Julia. I'll be overseeing orientation for the internship group."
Her handshake was firm, efficient. Her gaze flicked over me once and then returned to my face.
"You can leave your bag here for now."
I did as she said, trying not to let the silence in the room press on me too hard. There were four other interns seated around a long table, each of them trying in their own way to look calm. One was scribbling notes before anyone had even begun. Another kept glancing toward the door as if she might escape through it if she looked hard enough. A boy in a white shirt sat with his back too straight and his hands folded like he was preparing for war.
And then there was Ethan.
He looked up when he saw me, and his face brightened immediately.
"Hey," he said, sliding his chair back just enough to stand halfway. "You made it."
I smiled, a little relieved to see a familiar face.
"Apparently."
He laughed under his breath and sat back down.
"You look less terrified than yesterday."
"That's because I'm trying very hard to fake competence."
"Good strategy." His eyes twinkled faintly. "I use it all the time."
I couldn't help it. I laughed.
A small sound, but it loosened something inside me all the same.
Before I could answer, the room shifted.
It wasn't dramatic.
No music. No announcement. Just that subtle shift in human attention, the invisible turning of heads, the tiny tightening in posture when someone important enters a space.
I looked up.