Page 2 of Ruled By Rivalry

With small eyes scanning and a crease between his brows, he realized I wasn’t a threat and relaxed. “That’s one way to make an entrance.” Still rubbing his nose, the gruff voice contrasted the quirk of his lips. Not a smile, but not not a smile either. “How can I help you, Miss—”

“Peterson. Sorry, it’s my first day. Internship. Are you alright, honey?” Realizing my first impression at Adeline Ashwood was nearly committing aggravated assault, my cheeks flushed. The emotional support nickname slipped out in Mimi’s southern drawl. (My grandma was very proud of her accent, and when I visited after my first year of college, she was horrified to discover I’d been almost completely East Coast–ified.)

He waved me off casually, and his brown eyes disappeared behind the sunglasses again. “Been through worse than a door in my face. Just scan your badge at the gate over there. Elevator to the second floor, then right, right again, left—and you should find Rachel Roland’s office.”

It was abundantly clear that he was no longer open to questions after that. Not for a What? or Sorry, could you repeat that? He’d spoken so fast, and I’d been so focused on not being nervous, it was over before I could even grasp he was giving me directions.

First step: badge. Then gate. I got that much.

I’d packed my leather tote meticulously last night. Laptop, notebook, lunch. Pens and badge in the extra pocket inside. So, I wasn’t sure why on earth I couldn’t find the latter. I stopped short of the gate, a forced smile on my lips when I made brief eye contact with the lady behind the counter.

“Can I help you?” she asked, only making me search more desperately. Her blond ponytail screamed no bullshit.

Fuck. Where was that damn badge?

I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry. Just—there it is!” Although it left the inside of my bag in a state of unprecedented chaos, relief flooded my veins. Ponytail couldn’t possibly begin to understand just how much of it when she gave me a polite smile and turned back to her computer.

Meanwhile, my heart still sounded like it was beating in sync to an EDM song when I scanned my badge and got to the elevators. Not tripping in the lobby wasn’t really an accomplishment, but it felt like one.

I pressed the button for the second floor (that much I still remembered) and tried not to marvel at the inside of the elevator too much. Textured light panels, marbled floor with the signature Ashwood bow engraved in the middle. The mirror opposite the doors made me aware of something else that didn’t usually happen: I looked a mess.

Yes, my cheeks had gone back to their normal color and no longer resembled the natural red of my hair, but the latter was all over the place. Ginger strands stood in every possible direction, caught in the buttons of my shirt, and no longer screamed, Wow, she’s got her life together! even though I’d wielded that blow-dryer like a wand this morning. Unfortunately, my curtain bangs no longer had that perfect wave in them either.

Note to self: more hairspray.

I tried to salvage what I could, brushed the front pieces behind my ear, and scurried out of the elevator. Everything—from the logo on the opposite wall to the couch below it, the gleaming white floors and the light-pink accents, the bouquets on pillars lining the hallways in both directions—screamed luxury. Expensive and better than you in every sense. If I remembered my onboarding sheet correctly (and I did), the second floor held meeting rooms and personal offices, while the floors above housed the archives, atelier, and spaces to welcome clients and models and whatever other external stakeholders might come in.

My gaze swept through the hallway one last time. What had he said? Right, left, right again? I usually had no problem recounting directions, but I was more nervous than I’d like to be when I set off.

I passed offices with a single glass panel through which you could see inside, and behind each one was at least one person hunched over a computer, sketching, or pacing with a phone to their ear. Small golden name plaques decorated the doors, with a bow engraved above familiar names like Sheffield, Rodriguez, and Laurent: the heads of Adeline Ashwood’s design team and brains behind every new collection. I tried not to screech.

Another wall held framed black-and-white prints of their most iconic pieces, presented on models at fashion shows or celebrities at galas. I couldn’t help but slow down and soak up the fact that I was really here, working for the people who had created these. Iconic dresses, staple bags, and accessories that were worn by anyone who’s anyone. One day, hopefully, designed by yours truly.

Adeline Ashwood by Maeve Peterson.

It had a nice ring to it that eventually lured me farther down the hall, around corners, until there was just one door at the end of the hallway without a name plaque or glass panel to see through.

One look at my phone cemented a decision I’d made the second I’d seen the room. It was almost nine. Which left me basically on time—almost too late for my first day—and there was no need to wait until I really was.

I knocked.

Nothing. It took so long, I’d already raised my hand again when the door finally flew open and a small woman with tortoise-rimmed glasses blinked back at me. Her black ponytail was sleek, not a single strand out of place. My eyes grazed the top of her head, focused on something else entirely.

Not an office.

A meeting room, every single chair except for hers occupied with men in suits and women in blazers and pencil skirts. Authority and power oozed out of every single one of their pores. My gaze snapped back to Rimmed Glasses, her eyes as wide as mine, like she could just about imagine my horror.

“Yes?” she squeaked. My hand lowered all on its own, and if it wasn’t for every single pair of eyes on us, I would’ve probably tried to pinch myself out of this very realistic nightmare scenario.

Because one of those pairs belonged to Hunter Ashwood, piercing blue eyes more intimidating than they should’ve been from a distance. It wasn’t just the look on his face, though. It was the way he sat, pin straight, hands folded on the table. The crisp four-piece suit without a wrinkle in it.

And, yes, that expression too. Unwavering, relentless, still looking at me.

It took everything in me not to stutter when I said, “Sorry. I’m looking for the intern . . . welcoming?”

Totally made-up name, but what was I supposed to do?

Behind Rimmed Glasses, some lips quirked. Mouths went to ears, and whispers floated through the room until a single shift of Hunter Ashwood in his seat shut every single one of them up again. If possible, I got even smaller in the doorway, but the woman in front of me was too tiny to hide behind.