Bea’s POV
For some reason, HR told me to report the next day, and that I was officially hired.
At exactly 8:52 a.m., I went to the pantry to grab some tea, something to calm my nerves, but it only made things worse. My hands were trembling, and the cup slipped from my grip mid-turn. Time seemed to slow as I watched a stream of dark liquid arc through the air, drenching the front of my navy dress.
The fabric clung instantly, wet, hot, and unforgiving, hugging my stomach like a passive-aggressive reminder that I was not, in fact, having a good morning. The brown stain bloomed across my chest like an ugly badge of defeat.
Somewhere outside the breakroom, the office buzzed on, oblivious.
I stormed into the third-floor bathroom, my heels thudding against the tile like war drums. The door slammed behind me. I didn’t even glance at the mirror. I didn’t need a mirror to know I looked like a human teabag.
Yanking paper towels from the dispenser in violent fistfuls, I attacked the mess on my dress, blotting, rubbing, swiping like maybe, just maybe, friction could erase humiliation. It couldn’t. The more I dabbed, the uglier it got—wrinkles spreading, the stain darkening like it was soaking up my panic. The soaked fabric clung to my skin in blotchy patches, making every inch of me feel sticky, hot, and exposed.
I sucked in a breath. Then another. Shallow. Sharp. My chest tightened like a fist had curled around it.
Behind the foggy lenses of my glasses—already sliding traitorously down my nose—I caught the blur of my reflection. My curls had frizzed into a halo of rebellion, my face glistened with heat and stress, and my dress looked like I’d lost a fight with a cappuccino machine.
Yesterday was a disaster. I’d barely survived Julian Wolfe’s bone-dry stare, nearly shattered my dignity on two different glass doors, and now here I was—second day in and already drenched, disheveled, and one minor incident away from a full-on breakdown.
That’s when I heard the voice behind me.
“Yikes. Tea fight?”
I spun, startled, to find a woman standing in the doorway with a clipboard, a lanyard, and enough fashion sense to make me feel like a cartoon version of myself. Her blonde hair was slicked into a clean ponytail, her jumpsuit was perfectly belted, and her lipstick didn’t look like it had been applied on the bus with a phone camera.
“Something like that,” I said, forcing a smile as I tried to hold the paper towels over the worst of it.
She tilted her head and looked me up and down—not in the judgmental way I was used to, but in a problem-solving kind of way. “You’re new.”
“Beatriz. Bea,” I said. “Assistant to the Prince of Darkness.”
She laughed, a full-bodied kind of laugh that made me exhale for the first time all morning. “I’m Callie. In-house stylist. Come with me.”
“What…why?”
She was already walking out of the bathroom. “Trust me.”
I followed her mostly because I didn’t know what else to do. We went down a different hallway I hadn’t explored yet—sleek, mirrored, faintly smelling of perfume and ambition. She led me through a door marked “Styling Lab,” and suddenly we were in a room that looked like a fashion magazine had exploded: racks of clothes, shoes in every size, accessory walls, lighted mirrors, hair tools, makeup kits, and fabric swatches pinned like war plans.
Callie waved me toward a changing screen. “You’re about a ten, right?”
“Twelve on Mondays,” I mumbled, hugging the stained dress fabric tighter.
She tossed a wrap dress over the divider. “Try this. Navy, fitted, not too loud. Structured blazer coming next. You got heels?”
“Technically,” I said, “but they squeak like terrified mice.”
She grinned. “We’ll fix it.”
Ten minutes later, I stood in front of a mirror blinking at myself like I’d been body-snatched by someone with taste. The wrap dress hugged my waist in the right places without clinging like a needy ex. The blazer added shape. The heels didn’t squeak. My curls were smoothed and pinned in a loose updo, and for the first time in two years, I was wearing contact lenses. I felt like I had teeth. Not just metaphorically—like I could bite someone if I needed to, and they’d remember it.
“I… I don’t look like me,” I whispered.
Callie raised a brow. “You look like you, they'll remember. Go remind them.”
I walked out of the Styling Lab and back toward my floor with the grace of someone pretending their knees weren’t shaking. My heels clicked softly, confidently. My palms were dry for the first time in an hour. And when I stepped off the elevator and walked past the reception desk, the same girl who’d whispered about HR pulling a prank yesterday did a double take so sharp I thought she might get whiplash.
Julian Wolfe was already at his desk, typing something with surgical intensity. He didn’t glance up right away. I took a breath, dropped my bag at my little cubicle, and walked toward his office with my notepad like I wasn’t vibrating inside.
When he finally looked up, his hands stilled on the keyboard.
It wasn’t a long look. Maybe two seconds. Three, tops. But I saw it. That flicker. The way his eyes narrowed just slightly, like they were recalibrating something he thought he’d already labeled. His expression didn’t change much, but his energy did. Something in the room shifted.
“Nice to see you dressed like you want to keep the job,” he muttered, gaze flicking back to his laptop without meeting mine.
I swore—I swore—I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.