Chapter 1: Three years
The rain came down in sheets, relentless and indifferent, soaking through the shoulders of Elizabeth's thin coat as she hurried along the slick cobblestones. She clutched her portfolio case tighter against her chest, shielding it from the worst of the downpour, her boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirrored the neon glow of the city above.
You can do this, she told herself, her breath forming small clouds in the chilly air. It's just an interview. Graphic design position. Steady salary. Benefits.
Benefits meant everything. Benefits meant Asher's prescription could actually be filled this month instead of rationed, meant she wouldn't have to choose between groceries and medicine, meant she could finally sleep through the night without her chest tightening at the thought of the growing stack of bills on her kitchen counter.
She turned the corner and stopped.
The building towered before her, all glass and steel and quiet luxury—a monument to corporate success that made her feel instantly out of place. The words BLACK & CARTER CROWN were etched in elegant silver letters above the revolving doors, and the warm golden light spilling from the entrance seemed almost mocking in its invitation.
Elizabeth hesitated. Her stomach fluttered with a mix of nerves, and for a moment she considered turning around, walking back to her cramped one-bedroom apartment, and pretending she'd never seen the job posting.
For Asher.
She pushed through the revolving doors and into the lobby.
The space was all marble floors and vaulted ceilings, with a sleek reception desk that looked like it cost more than her entire apartment. A young woman with sharp cheekbones and perfectly pinned hair smiled at her from behind the desk, her nails tapping rhythmically against the polished surface.
"Good morning," the receptionist said, her voice smooth as silk. "May I help you?"
Elizabeth forced herself to smile, hoping the nervous tremor in her hands wasn't visible. The AC in the building was doing nothing for the uncomfortable warmth spreading across her skin from the humidity clinging to her clothes. She could feel her hair plastered to her forehead, and she tucked a strand behind her ear with trembling fingers.
"Hi, um—" Elizabeth cleared her throat. "I have an interview. My name is Elizabeth Summers. I'm here for the junior graphic designer position."
The receptionist's fingers paused their rhythm. She glanced down at a sleek tablet on her desk, scrolling through what Elizabeth assumed was a schedule of appointments. After a moment, the woman nodded, offering a warm, practiced smile.
"Of course. Mr. Black will be with you shortly. Please have a seat in the waiting area, and someone will escort you up."
The name hung in the air like a physical presence.
Black.
Elizabeth's heart skipped a beat. A cold chill slithered down her spine, and her hand tightened convulsively around her portfolio case.
"Black?" she repeated, her voice coming out embarrassingly small.
The receptionist tilted her head, her eyes narrowing just a fraction—the first flicker of curiosity breaking through her professional veneer. "Yes. Joseph Black. Our Chief Executive Officer. He personally conducts the creative team interviews."
The words hit her like a physical blow.
Joseph Black.
Three years.
Three years she'd spent carefully avoiding this exact scenario. Her frantic midnight scrolling through job postings, she'd missed this one. Or perhaps she'd simply been so desperate that the name hadn't registered.
Black & Carter Crown.
She'd thought the company was just another design firm. How could she not have made the connection? How could she have been so careless?
Her heart slammed against her ribs. The receptionist was watching her with an expression that had shifted from curiosity to concern, and Elizabeth knew she must look like a deer caught in the headlights—wild-eyed, pale, trembling. She forced herself to breathe, to smile, to pretend everything was fine when every instinct was screaming at her to run.
"I'm sorry," Elizabeth said, already backing toward the door, her voice pitched higher than she intended. "I think—I made a mistake. I have the wrong company. I need to—"
She grabbed her portfolio case with both hands, clutching it so tightly her knuckles turned white.
The receptionist stood up, her brow furrowing. “Miss Summers? Are you okay? Can I get you some water?"
Elizabeth shook her head, already inching toward the elevator bank. The panic was suffocating, clouding her thoughts, narrowing her vision until all she could see was that elegant silver lettering and the endless possibilities of what could happen if she stayed.
Elizabeth pressed the elevator button with shaking fingers, her heart hammering so violently she could feel it in her throat. The doors opened with a soft chime, and she practically lunged inside, jabbing at the lobby button with desperate urgency.
Asher's face flashed through her mind—those big blue eyes, so like his father's, the way he smiled when she walked through the door, the way he wrapped his tiny arms around her neck and pressed his cheek against hers.
The doors began to slide shut, and Elizabeth allowed herself a single shaky exhale.
Then the doors slid open again.
She crashed into him so hard that her portfolio case went flying, its contents scattering across the marble floor like leaves caught in a storm. Strong arms wrapped around her waist, steadying her before she could fall. Her hands came up instinctively, pressing against something hard—
A chest. A very firm, very warm chest.
"Are you okay?" The voice was deep, laced with genuine concern. A voice she'd heard countless times in her dreams. A voice she'd tried desperately to forget.
Elizabeth looked up.
Her heart stopped.
Joseph.
He looked the same but impossibly different after three years. His jaw was sharper, or perhaps it was just the way he carried himself now—more certain, more grounded. His blue eyes were the same, though, that piercing shade she'd never been able to shake, and they were studying her face with a curious intensity that made her breath catch.
His black hair was perfectly styled, his expensive suit immaculate despite the storm outside. He looked like he'd just stepped off a magazine cover, and standing here in her damp secondhand dress with her hair plastered to her forehead, she felt every ounce of the distance between them.
"Ma'am?" Joseph asked, his brow furrowing slightly. His hands were still at her waist, steadying her, and the warmth of them seared through the damp fabric of her coat.
Elizabeth shook her head, forcing herself to speak. "Y-yes, I'm okay. I'm sorry." She removed her hands from his chest quickly, as though his skin had burned her.
She stepped back.
Joseph's hands fell away from her waist, but his gaze didn't waver. Something flickered in his expression—recognition? No. It couldn't be. She was just another stranger to him, another face in the crowd. That night had meant nothing to him. How could it?
"You're here for an interview?" he asked, his tone politely curious.
Elizabeth blinked. His gaze twitched to her scattered portfolio on the floor, where her best pieces were splayed across the marble like a vulnerable confession. She quickly knelt, scrambling to gather the pages with clumsy, frantic fingers.
"Yes. I am." She stood, hugging the papers to her chest, avoiding his eyes.
Joseph bent down, retrieving one final sketch that had skidded further away. Then he smiled, soft and genuine, and handed it back to her. “Let's get you inside."
He didn't wait for her response, simply turned and led her past the reception desk, through a set of frosted glass doors, and down a long, quiet hallway lined with abstract art. Elizabeth followed on autopilot, her legs numb as they passed conference rooms and assistant stations until they reached the last door at the end of the corridor.
Joseph opened it, stepping aside as she entered. His office was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the rain-slicked city, the storm clouds painting everything in shades of grey and steel. He closed the door behind her, and it clicked with a finality that made her skin crawl.
He walked to his desk, gesturing to the chair opposite.
"Take a seat, Miss—"
Summers. She opened her mouth, and the word came out steady despite everything. "Summers. Elizabeth Summers."
Joseph's gaze sharpened. He moved around his desk slowly, lowering himself into his leather chair. His eyes never left her face, studying her.
"Miss Summers," he repeated. The name rolled off his tongue like he was tasting it.
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Elizabeth clutched her portfolio against her chest, trapped beneath the weight of his attention.
Joseph’s eyes were patient. Elizabeth clutched her portfolio against her chest, trapped beneath the weight of his attention. He watched her with an easy, unhurried calm, as if he had all the time in the world and she was the only thing worth spending it on.
"Miss Summers," he said, his voice warm. "Please. Sit."
Elizabeth's legs carried her forward before her brain could catch up. She lowered herself into the leather chair across from his desk, the material cool against the backs of her thighs. She placed her portfolio on her lap, fingers still trembling.
Joseph leaned back in his chair, studying her with those piercing blue eyes. A strand of damp hair fell across her forehead, and she tucked it behind her ear with a motion she hoped looked casual.
"You're soaked," he observed.
"I got caught in the rain." She cringed internally at the obviousness of the statement.
"Let me get you some coffee." He started to rise.
"No—" The word came out sharper than she intended. She softened her voice. "No, thank you. I'm fine. Really."
He paused, mid-rise, and settled back into his chair. A flicker of something crossed his face—curiosity, perhaps, or amusement. He tilted his head slightly.
"Alright, Miss Summers. Show me what you've brought."
Elizabeth hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to flee. Every memory of that night pressed against her chest, warm and suffocating. She forced her fingers to open the clasp on her portfolio and slid it across the polished surface of his desk.
Joseph pulled it toward him, flipping it open. He studied each page with quiet attention, his eyes tracing the lines of her designs. She watched his face, searching for any sign of recognition, but found only professional interest.
"You have an eye for detail, Miss Summers," he said. He stopped on a charcoal sketch—a woman in a flowing dress, standing on the bow of a boat, the city skyline rising behind her. "This one. It's striking."
"Thank you, Mr. Black." Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
He continued flipping through the pages, pausing occasionally to linger on a particular design. Then he closed the portfolio and looked at her again, his gaze sharpening. Something shifted in his expression—a subtle tension gathering around his eyes.
"Have we met before?" he asked.
Elizabeth's heart seized. She kept her face still, her hands folded in her lap, her breath even. The air in the office grew thick.
"I think you have me confused with someone else," she said, staring into his eyes.
Joseph held her gaze for a long moment. The silence stretched, uncomfortable and heavy. Then he blinked, and a small, self-deprecating smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You seem familiar. Sorry, Miss Summers. I guess I must be mistaken." He shook his head slightly, as if clearing the thought. His eyes flicked down to her portfolio, then back up to her face. "When can you start?"
Elizabeth's mind blanked.
"Start?" she repeated.
"The position. Junior graphic designer." He gestured at her portfolio. "Your work is excellent. You clearly understand composition, color, narrative. And based on the urgency of your arrival this morning, I imagine you need the job."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her pulse hammered in her ears.
She'd come here for this. She'd fought through the rain, the nerves, the fear—for this. Asher needed his medicine. The prescription for his asthma inhaler had been sitting on the pharmacy counter for a week, waiting for money she didn't have. Her landlord had called twice this week about the rent. She'd eaten instant noodles for dinner the past four nights to stretch her grocery budget.
She looked at Joseph Black—the man she'd spent three years trying to forget, the father of her son who would never know the truth—and forced herself to breathe.
"I can start Monday," she said.
Joseph smiled. It was a genuine smile, warm and unguarded, and it made him look younger. Made her heart ache in ways she couldn't afford.
"Monday it is, then." He stood, extending his hand across the desk. "Welcome to Black & Carter Crown, Miss Summers."
Elizabeth rose and took his hand. His grip was warm and firm, his skin calloused in the way of someone who worked with his hands, despite the polished exterior of his expensive suit. She felt the familiar electricity shoot up her arm and quickly pulled away.
"I'll have HR send over the paperwork," he said, walking around the desk. "Do you need directions to your workspace?"
"I'll find it." She grabbed her portfolio, clutching it to her chest like a shield. "Thank you, Mr. Black."
"Joseph," he corrected gently. "We're colleagues now."
A lump formed in her throat. "Thank you, Joseph."
He walked her to the door and held it open for her. She stepped into the hallway, her legs wobbling beneath her, and headed toward the elevator. Her entire body hummed with a dangerous energy.
She was halfway to the elevator when his voice stopped her.
"Miss Summers?"
She turned. Joseph stood in the doorway of his office, one hand resting on the frame. His head tilted slightly as he studied her, and a small line appeared between his brows.
"I hope this isn't forward of me," he said carefully. "But you seem familiar. Are you sure we've never crossed paths?"
Elizabeth's heart slammed against her ribs.
"I'm sure," she said, forcing the words out past the tightness in her throat.
She watched something flicker in his eyes— He gave a short nod.
"Have a good rest of your day, then." He stepped back into his office and closed the door.
Elizabeth didn't wait. She fled toward the elevator, pressed the button with shaking fingers, and stepped inside the moment it arrived. As the doors slid shut, she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She sagged against the cool metal wall, pressing her palms against her face.
What have I done?
She thought of Asher—his dark curls, his tiny fingers wrapped around hers, the way he said "Mama" in that soft, questioning voice that made her want to give him the world. She thought of Joseph's blue eyes, so similar to the ones she looked into every morning.
You'll never know the truth, she thought. And that's okay. As long as he's safe.