Chapter Three
Dawn
The second I open my eyes, I regret it.
The dull throb behind my temples pulses in time with my heartbeat, and my mouth is so dry it feels like I swallowed a handful of sand.
God, how much did I drink last night?
I groan, rolling onto my side, wincing as daylight spills through the window. My phone is face-down on the floor, screen still glowing from whatever I was looking at before I passed out. I grab it with a lazy hand, squinting at the time.
11:42 AM.
Yeah. That tracks.
I push myself up slowly, grimacing as the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my skull. My body feels heavy, sluggish, my head pounding in protest.
Coffee. Water. Shower. Full body reset.
I drag myself to the kitchen, blindly filling a glass from the sink and downing it in three gulps before starting the coffee maker. While it sputters to life, I lean against the counter, unlocking my phone and flipping through the photos from last night.
Selfies with Cassidy. Blurry neon bar lights. A drink held up in victory.
I crack a smile despite myself, swiping through the evidence of bad decisions and good company. Cassidy looks flawless as always—loose blonde waves, red lips, confidence in every frame. I, on the other hand, look… well, drunk. Happy, though, at least.
My eyes pause on one photo, my arm draped over Cassidy’s shoulders, my lips parted mid-laugh. For once, I don’t look exhausted.
The coffee machine beeps, pulling me from my thoughts. I grab a mug, pouring a generous amount before heading toward the bathroom.
Shower first. Then unpacking.
I strip down, stepping underneath the hot water, letting it wash away the remnants of last night. But even with the heat pouring against my shoulders, I can’t shake it.
I sent out over thirty applications last week—places all over L.A., before I even left Colorado. And I haven’t heard a single thing back.
Not one call. Not one email.
Nothing.
And somehow, I’m just standing here like it’s fine.
I press my hand against the tile, my breath tight. What if I don’t get anything? What if I uprooted my entire life to move back here and end up burning through my savings in the first few months?
I shake the thought away and drink my coffee as the hot water hits my back. Panicking won’t fix it.
By the time I’m towel-dried and dressed in my comfy shorts and a loose t-shirt, my headache has faded into something manageable. But the stress lingers.
The apartment is still filled with unpacked boxes, piles of things waiting to find a place. I sigh, stretching my arms overhead before grabbing the nearest one.
Might as well make a dent in it.
. . .
I shove the last empty box toward the door with my foot, exhaling as I glance around the apartment. It’s not much, but at least it doesn’t look like a storage unit anymore.
The bathroom is finally organized, everything tucked away under the sink or lined up on the narrow counter.
My plastic drawers—the same ones I’ve had since I was a teenager—are snapped together in the corner of the bedroom, filled with panties, socks, and whatever else fits.
My closet is stuffed, my shirts and jeans neatly hung in their new space.
It's progress.
But it doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t have a bed.
Or a TV.
Or literally anything except this couch.
I sigh, running a hand through my damp hair. The apartment feels empty, barely livable, like a temporary stop instead of home. I don’t even have a goddamn table. Just boxes stacked near the wall, reminders of everything I don’t have.
Still, I tell myself it’s fine.
I’ve done more with less.
And right now, it’s not like I can afford anything else.
I sink onto the couch, pulling my knees to my chest as I let out a slow breath.
Maybe I should go to the store later. Get something, anything, to make this place feel less like I’m squatting inside my own home.
Or maybe I should get another coffee and pretend that none of this bothers me.
I sigh, rubbing my temples before pushing myself off the couch. Coffee. Just make the coffee and pretend everything is fine. It’s a solid plan. A little caffeine, a little selective denial, and I can push off the crushing reality of my life for another hour.
I make it two steps toward the kitchen before my phone starts buzzing. I freeze. Nobody calls me.
Frowning, I dig my phone out of the couch cushions, blinking at the screen. An unsaved number. L.A. area code.
My stomach twists slightly. It could be a job offer. Or a scam. Or some random bullshit. I hesitate for only a second before swiping to answer. “Hello?”
There’s a pause, then a voice—low, smooth, and completely unfamiliar. “Dawn Carter.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement. A certainty.
I straighten slightly, a strange tension creeping up my spine. “Who’s this?”
The voice on the other end doesn’t miss a beat. “Nikolai Blackthorn.” His name lands like a weighted coin in my chest. And his voice—god, his voice. It’s charming, slow, deliberate. Dripping in the kind of charisma that could make someone believe anything. “I have a job offer for you.”
I blink, gripping the phone tighter.
Nikolai Blackthorn.
I freeze. My breath catches in my throat.
Blackthorn Inc. The number one security and tech company in the country. Practically a global empire. Everyone knows that name.
And Nikolai Blackthorn himself—the heir to the entire thing—is on the other end of this call?
Not a hiring manager, not an assistant. Him.
This has to be a scam.
I clear my throat, shifting my weight. “A job offer?”
“Yes.” His voice is measured, the faintest trace of amusement curling at the edges, like he already knows I wasn’t expecting this call. “Your application is on my desk. I’m looking for a new personal assistant, and I’d like to meet with you today.”
Personal assistant?
My brows knit together. That’s not what I applied for. “I—" I hesitate, running a hand through my hair. “I don’t remember applying for anything like that.”
“You didn’t.” His answer is immediate. Too casual.
Something about the certainty in his voice makes my stomach tighten. What the hell does that mean? “I don’t understand,” I say carefully, walking back toward the couch, balancing the phone between my shoulder and my ear. “If I didn’t apply for the job, why am I getting an offer?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Then he exhales, but it’s controlled. “Your resume stood out. And the position requires filling.”
My eyes narrow.
I glance at the clock—almost 3:30 pm. I’ve only been awake for a few hours and already, something feels off.
“Okay,” I say slowly, choosing my words. “So, what exactly does this job entail?”
“We can discuss this in my office,” Nikolai replies smoothly. “If you’re willing to meet with me today.”
I hesitate. There’s something about the way he says it, firm but expectant, like he already knows my answer.
I should say no.
The entire thing is weird. Too convenient. Too easy.
But then I think about the thirty unanswered job applications. The rent and bills will all start to become due sooner than I will realize.
“Fine,” I exhale. “Where’s your office?”
“Blackthorn Tower,” he says. “Downtown. I’ll have you cleared at the front desk.”
Of course he works in a fucking skyscraper.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the strange feeling curling around my ribs. “Alright. I’ll be there soon.”
“Good,” he says, and I swear I can hear the faintest hint of satisfaction in his voice. “I’ll see you soon, Miss Carter.”
The line clicks dead before I can respond.
I pull the phone away, staring at it for a beat too long.
What the hell did I just agree to?
I exhale, still staring at my phone like it’s about to tell me I’ve made a mistake. Maybe I did.
Either way, I still have to go.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I step into my bedroom—or what’s supposed to be my bedroom, if I ever get a bed. The closet doors are half open, revealing the collection of clothes I managed to bring with me.
What the hell does someone wear to a job interview they didn’t actually apply for?
I grab a fitted black pencil skirt that hugs my waist and stops just above the knee, tight enough to be flattering, but not enough to look unprofessional. I pair it with a silky white blouse, the kind that drapes in all the right places.
A glance in the mirror tells me that something is missing.
I put on some mascara and slip into a pair of nude stilettos—sharp enough to click against the floors, and just high enough to put me at eye-level with most men.
I smooth my hands over my skirt, adjusting the delicate gold necklace resting against my collarbone, and pull my hair into a sleek low ponytail—clean, polished, and effortless. Sexy, but in a way that says I know exactly what I’m doing.
I grab my bag, double check my phone, and with one last deep breath, head for the door.