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PROLOGUE

Yara

My stomach was in knots as I took in a deep breath. I walked into the pristine building, holding on to my midsection, praying the ache would go away. Stomach aches weren’t out of the norm for me. As someone who had Crohn’s disease, I had my fair share of them.

As I looked around the lobby, my mind drifted to thoughts of what it would be like to work in such a luxurious place. Finally, I snapped out of my daydreams and glanced down at my phone for the hundredth time that morning.

Second floor, first door on the right.

I knew the instructions listed out in the email like the back of my hand at this point, but nerves poked at me and had me quadruple checking things to make sure I was on point.

I really, really need this job.

The elevator was straight ahead. When I pressed the call button, the doors popped open right away. The ride up to the second floor only took seconds. When I stepped off the elevator, I noticed that this floor was empty and quiet. There was a vacant reception desk and a couple of office doors, but they were all closed. The one I needed to go to was on the right, as instructed, with the name Aniya Grant written on the frosted glass.

After allowing my hand to finally drop from my stomach, I walked over to the door and knocked softly.

“Come in,” a voice called out sharply.

My brows pulled in at the harsh tone, but I pushed the door open and placed a smile on my face.

“Mrs. Grant? I’m here for my interview. I’m Yara Fairchild,” I said as I stepped just inside the room.

Aniya Grant sat behind a sleek, large black desk. There were color swabs, patterns, cloths, and blueprints littering her desk. The room was bigger than I thought it would be, with wide windows and a soft pink couch in the corner. The walls were light pink with one accent wall, which was black. I thought that was an odd choice. If she wanted to go for a bold splash, I thought an espresso brown would have gone better, but what did I know? She was the expert. Aniya Grant owned this very successful, luxury interior design company. I’d done my homework. This business was worth a lot of money, so she had to know what she was doing.

“What are you wearing?” she asked with her lip turning up like she smelled something foul.

It was too bad because she really was a gorgeous woman. Her toffee skin was flawless. Her face was angular and sharp, but in a beautiful way that made me stare in awe. Her curly brown hair was free and wild, but it worked for her. And her body? One sweep down the length of her and I had to wonder if she’d gotten work done because her shape was too perfect. Stunning. That was what she was. She was absolutely stunning, but her voice? That was something else entirely. Her voice seemed to lash out like a whip, cracking the air between us with sharp jabs.

I looked down at my clothes. I had on some black slacks and a royal blue blouse. The pop of color went so well with my brown sugar-colored skin. My black hair was straightened with soft curls and falling down my back elegantly. I paired the outfit with some closed-toe black heels. I knew how to dress, and just because my clothes weren’t designer clothes like hers didn’t mean I wasn’t beautiful in my own right.

It was true enough that I sometimes had body image issues. That could happen when a person’s weight fluctuated like mine did. Crohn’s disease could make me look as skinny as a twig, but when I was on a good spurt, I ate everything in sight because it felt like such a luxury, so I gained weight easily. But then there were times, like right now, where I hit a sweet spot. My stomach was flat, but I was by no means skinny. My ass stuck out, my thighs were big, but my waist was small. My small breasts had a bit more weight right now, too, and they sat up real nice in the push-up bra I wore. Today was one of the days where I knew I looked good, and not even Barbie here could shake that.

When I looked back at her, I gazed into her brown eyes with an arched brow and said, “Clothes.”

My tone was no longer friendly. I also didn’t use a nasty tone like she did. I simply just didn’t have the energy to play nice since it was clear this woman didn’t like me when she didn’t even know me. It felt like she decided I wasn’t worthy of the job after one glance.

What the fuck am I going to do? I need a job ASAP . . .

My thoughts scattered when she scoffed. “If you say so. Go ahead and sit.”

My jaw clenched, but my feet moved. I really needed this job.

As soon as I sat down, she got right into the interview.

“Your résumé shows quite a few gaps in your job history. Why?”

I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. She wasted no time, and that threw me off guard, but I knew by this point it was best to be honest than try to hide it, because it would only come back to bite me in the ass. Crohn’s was incurable, so it was inevitable.

“I have Crohn’s disease. It means I have inflammation in my stomach and suffer from severe stomach issues. It’s also an autoimmune disease, so my immune system attacks itself. It’s been a tough road to balancing my condition and work, but I think I’m finally on the right path.

“I had surgery four months ago, and I’m in remission. I’m not cured, but I am a lot better than I have been since I was diagnosed when I was fifteen.”

“So that’s why you’ve been out of a job for four months? Recovering from surgery?”

She didn’t even look up when she asked the question, nor was there a hint of sympathy in her tone. If I didn’t know any better, I would think that she didn’t even hear a word I just told her. Most people at least gave me an encouraging nod. It wasn’t that I needed pity or sympathy, but her blatant disregard threw me completely off.

“Yes.” I drew the word out slowly, not really understanding where she was going with this line of questioning. It didn’t seem like she really cared. It felt more like she just wanted to be nosy, but she didn’t even know me, so I was confused.