AYLA
The door opened and closed as I glided onto the busy street, pushing strands of my signature red hair behind my ear.
Drained? Certainly.
Working two jobs to support myself and dad's medical bills while chipping away at college loans is hardly my idea of a stellar young-adult life.
Wills Thorne—my father and only parent—used to work as a truck driver for some company; at least that's what he told me.
He never talked about his job. I figured he probably hated the job. And after the accident three years ago, I'd had to take responsibility for his medical bills.
I pulled my phone from my Z&Z designer tote. Don't get the wrong idea—I'm not someone who splurges on luxury. I just couldn't stop staring at this one.
I opened the incoming text from Millie.
"Sorry, pumpkin. I won't be coming back tonight. Spending the night at the Peters'."
Millie's my best friend and roommate. Peter Martinez is Millie's prince charming.
"Hell yeah, you are," I sighed.
I slipped the phone back into my bag.
Millie's relationship is the perfect love blurb you see on your Instagram story; The poor girl finds her rich prince charming just before she blooms and becomes wild. Yeah, that sort.
My own life, however, is painfully loveless.
Love was work.
I only had energy for one thing—money. The pursuit of it. The promise of it. Zillions of it preferably. There was no room for romance in that equation.
I crossed the congested streets of Shales Haven, flagged down a taxi and headed for the Moretti Villa on the other side of the city.
"You can't drive in. No taxis allowed." the security guard at the Moretti's grand villa announced over an intercom.
As if I didn't know that.
I did a melodramatic eyeroll.
"Thank you, Mister," I said to the taxi driver as I stepped down and approached the electric gate.
A body scanner appeared. Pupils checked. A green click. The gates parted.
I glanced at my wristwatch. 7:10 p.m—Late again. Third time this week.
I picked up my pace, breaking into a light run.
"You're late. Again!" The force of Mrs Vine's eye roll threatened to expunge her eyes from its sockets the moment she spotted me.
I dropped my bag into an empty locker and slipped into my custom black-and-white uniform.
The sniggers started.
"Look who finally decided to show up."
"Here comes the excuses."
"Who does she think she is?"
I ignored them—their whispers curling beneath fake lashes and cheaper attitudes.
This was routine.
All they ever did was snigger and swell with jealousy. They never made it to my face.
I swallowed the retort aimed at the blonde who spoke last. With that poorly done liposuction, her confidence was astonishing.
I gave a cheeky smile to each of them.
I always did.
It infuriated them even more.
"I'm sorry I'm late, Mrs Vine." I said lightly, "The coffee shop was packed. I lost track of time"
"When aren't you ever sorry?" Mrs Vine questioned petulantly, inspecting me with hawk-like scrutiny.
Before she could finish the threat, I slipped behind her, wrapped my arms around her shoulders, and kissed her cheek.
"Thanks for covering for me. I owe you."
Her scowl melted into reluctant amusement. "You're crazy." Mrs Vine dropped a light nudge on my head.
"Yeah—money crazy. I know that too." I winked.
I stepped forward, waiting for instructions.
"Not you, Ayla." Mrs. Vine said, snapping her fingers as she sent the others out with the dishes.
"Is there an occasion?" I asked, eyeing the spread.
She bobbed her head while checking the gravy. "Of course. Did you forget?"
Do I ever remember anything that isn't money related?
"I think I did. Please remind me." I said, stealing a piece of chip from one of the trays.
"Tsk. How could you!" Mrs Vine slurred, switching her stance to a disappointed mother, arms crossed.
I shrugged. No one ever got paid for remembering occasional dates around here—at least I've never seen any.
"Everything isn't about money, Ayla. Your life has no romance, you can't have a rich boyfriend to spoil you, and you forget Mr. Cassian Moretti's welcome-back party?"
The boyfriend part wasn't entirely true—I could get one if I wanted—I just didn't want one, especially not after what Matteo did to me.
Catching him in bed with his 'supposedly best friend' on our second anniversary cured me of romantic optimism.
I wonder how I'd been so stupid to believe a man could have a female best friend that wasn't his partner.
"That's not exactly important news," I said mildly.
Mrs. Vine froze."Oh my God!"
I tilted my head slightly. "Really, I mean, I expected you to say something. . ."
"What sort of news were you expecting?"
My words trailed off.
The voice came from behind me—low, smooth and anything but forgiving.
The chip lodged halfway down my throat.
The scent hit next—oud, sandalwood, cardamom—rich and unmistakably masculine.
I guess this is finally the day I die by the words of my mouth.
I turned.
My brain cells short circuited but my outward features stayed taut..
I blinked once, my gaze on the scar-faced Adonis standing in front of me.
Six-foot-two. Lean, disciplined muscle lined with tattoos from his collarbone to his wrist beneath a full sleeve white shirt. Impeccable white teeth.
And that face— enough to send dread crawling down my spine, even though scarred—looked as if crafted by God himself to fit that body.
I swallowed the potato chips without bothering to chew, wincing at the sharp pain in my throat.
"Mr. Cassian—" Mrs. Vine rushed forward, pinching my arm. "Stop staring!"
I wasn't f**king gawking!
At least, I hoped it didn't look like I was.
He studied me with detached interest.
I bowed, cussing under my breath as my finger squeezed the hem of my black skirt.
That fuzzy dark chocolate hair looked so healthy.
I had no idea men spent time taking care of their hair.
His attention didn't waiver. "What were you expecting?" His voice came out even, flat, and measured.
He lounged his body on the wall, hands fixed into his pocket, gaze slow and accessing with dull interest.
I caught my lower lip between my teeth. Heat flaring my cheeks into a beetroot red.
I expected something like a salary raise. Something that clearly benefits me, I thought.
"Red hair… stormy green eyes with amber fleeks. Quite the curves." His list ended.
"Wait… what?"
My eyes flashed with anger. Why was he checking me out?
"Isn't it really important news to have me home?"
There was only one answer on the tip of my tongue right now.
I wanted to tell him the truth.
But truth didn't pay the bills. At least not mine!
"I didn't mean that," I said, my voice sounding more confident than I wanted it.
"I apologize for that silly remark…" Mrs Vine stepped in, trying to make atonement for my alleged sin. "You really should pay no mind to her."
My eyes fell on his statement jet black leather shoes glistening against the light.
Mrs Vine tugged my arm to join in the repeated apology.
I meant what I said.
But money? Money made people like me apologize for things we never are sorry for.
I opened my mouth to tender my fake out of character apology when his words beat me to it
"What were you expecting?"
I shouldn't look him in the eyes. I've been warned to always keep my head bowed low when talking to a Moretti.
It was the working rules here.
'Do not speak unless you're spoken to.
Do not, under any condition, stare directly at a Moretti.'
I did.
Standing straight, chin tilted upward to hold his gaze. "I was expecting a raise."
Something in his stance shifted.
He walked in, closing the distance, his manicured hand found my face, grazing my chin gently.
A small crack in his composure disappeared almost as immediately as if I'd imagined it.
Those strong scarred large hands made the hair on the nape of my neck stand. If I ever thought he was jaw-dropping handsome, standing this close to him, I couldn't breathe.
He looked every bit a fallen scarred adonis.
His full brows knotted, his voice— icy and emotionless—matched the look on his face, "what's your name?"
Why did he need my name?
Was he going to terminate my job already?
I felt my chest rise and fall as panic skidded down my spine.
His gaze didn't shift. Not even when Mrs Vine spoke again, trying to douse the tension in the kitchen: "She just makes silly jokes she never means."
He ignored her, eyes boring into mine.
Men like this did not entertain interruptions.
"What is your name?" he pointed out the unanswered question.
I swallowed the invisible lump down, "Ayla—Ayla Thorne" I croaked.
He smirked wickedly, closing what was left of the space between us, the hard lines of his body almost pressing into mine.
Holy Jesus!
My breath hitched.
He noticed.
"Your audacity is raise worthy, Ayla."
He leaned closer, filling my senses with the rich taste of his cologne.
His breath felt like a threat and a warm promise as it brushed against my lips.
Ayla Thorne, you're finally going to die.
I wished the floor would split apart and have me swallowed. It didn't.
His lips curled, drifting my attention to them—Full.
Why did one man look so dangerously perfect?
"You're now on my list!" He wiggled his brows, eyes twinkling with glee and a healthy dose of mischief.
"What?...Me? What list?!" I stuttered, eyes wide. Sweat creased my forehead.
He didn't respond. Staring at me with a cold new interest I didn't notice before.
He turned and walked out, leaving me breathless.
I know I said I couldn't breathe.
But right now, I think my heart stopped working