Chapter 1
Even now, my mother remains the most organized person I know.
She’s the reason I wake up at six every morning to go for a run.
She’s why I’m determined (almost to a fault) and don’t give up.
She loved fashion, so I studied it. Graduated with honors and scored the internship opportunity of a lifetime.
Whenever I got to visit home, I made sure to tell her headstone how far we’d come.
While I was in the city, my best friend would have to do, though.
Pressing my phone tighter against my ear, I dodged another rogue local with a face that told me he would become physical if I got in his way.
“I don’t think an intern gets to—no, I don’t think so.
If I get to style your boyfriend, Paula, I will let you know! ” I added with an airy laugh.
“If you’re styling my boyfriend, I expect to be consulted.”
“Right. The girl who can’t make a decision to save her life and almost showed up to a first date in sweatpants . . . wants to be consulted on fashion choices.”
“Hey!” I could hear the amusement in what she tried to sell as outrage. “Technically, that was not a first date.”
“No, it was worse. You were already in love with the guy,” I deadpanned.
Finally, her laugh rang through the speaker, mixing with police sirens and honking cabs and one angry Italian accent yelling, “Stop pissing on my sidewalk!”
Around me, people frowned at their screens, squeezed through the dense rush hour crowd, and loudly complained about tourists stopping a foot short of them to take photos of a particularly tall building. My smile seemed out of place.
But this was all I’d ever wanted, so I couldn’t help it.
“So, if you’re not styling Henry,” Paula mocked, “what do you have to do?”
“Run-of-the-mill intern stuff, I suppose.” I stopped at a red light and watched at least twenty more people cross. One of them rammed their elbow into my side for not breaking the law. “Ouch. Get coffee, write emails. Observe. Assist.”
“Maeve Peterson: a glorified servant. Can’t say I haven’t been there.” She sighed wistfully and, in sync with the light turning green, asked, “Nervous?”
To avoid getting trampled on my first day, I basically ran across the street.
“Excited,” I corrected as soon as I could focus on something other than my basic survival.
“I just left my Ashwood-provided apartment”—that I was lucky enough not to share with another intern, as originally intended—“in New York. I’m on my way to the biggest luxury designer in New York.
Get to be a glorified servant.” A pause for dramatic effect.
“In New York. Me and my best friend live in the same city again.”
Paula was currently writing a profile on a Blue Eagles player, and the team was on a training trip, which meant so was she. Couldn’t say I envied her week full of soccer and sweaty men, but she was coming home tonight.
“You and your best friend will live in New York,” she clarified. “That seems to be a common theme here.”
“In New York!” Not a single person glanced my way when I happily skipped over the next crosswalk.
I was sure they were used to much worse.
“You’re starting to get it. I’m on my way to my dream job, in my dream city, living in my dream apartment.
” With two bedrooms, a large window in the kitchen, and a fire escape I’d definitely be using as a balcony. “And no roommates!”
The line crackled at her loud exhale, not quite a laugh yet. “I was a great roommate.”
I tossed my empty coffee cup and rounded the last corner when I spotted it. My stomach dropped in anticipation. Excitement. This is really happening, I realized, looking up at the giant signature Adeline Ashwood bow engraved on the four-story building in the heart of SoHo.
“You were a great roommate. Listen, babe, I just got to the office—”
“The office.” Paula hummed in approval. “Sounds so official. Let me know when you’ve taken the place over!”
The certainty in her tone before she hung up should’ve been intimidating.
Let me know when you’ve taken the place over.
High expectations hid behind that statement, but I’d grown up with those, and there was no need to keep them low.
I’d been dreaming about this day in some form or another since I was six years old and started picking out my own clothes.
Granted, they weren’t anything as fancy as Adeline Ashwood, but it’s the thought that counted.
I fiddled with the collar of Pops’s old button-up, straightened the sleeveless knit vest layered on top, and made sure both were tucked into the tailored pants I’d been lucky enough to find in the back of Mom’s closet when we’d finally gone through her stuff years ago.
Donate. Toss. Maeve.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out which pile had been the biggest.
With a deep breath, I banned the little flutter of nerves and rush of nostalgia. Then pushed the door into the best day of my life open.
Straight into a security guard’s face.
“Oh my God.” I took a step back just to make sure I wasn’t about to get tackled by the guy. The black sunglasses on his nose sat crooked after the accidental attack, and he lifted them to really look at me.
With small eyes scanning and a crease between his brows, he realized I wasn’t a threat and relaxed. “That’s one way to make an entrance.” Still rubbing his nose, the gruff voice contrasted the quirk of his lips. Not a smile, but not not a smile either. “How can I help you, Miss—”
“Peterson. Sorry, it’s my first day. Internship.
Are you alright, honey?” Realizing my first impression at Adeline Ashwood was nearly committing aggravated assault, my cheeks flushed.
The emotional support nickname slipped out in Mimi’s southern drawl.
(My grandma was very proud of her accent, and when I visited after my first year of college, she was horrified to discover I’d been almost completely East Coast–ified.)
He waved me off casually, and his brown eyes disappeared behind the sunglasses again. “Been through worse than a door in my face. Just scan your badge at the gate over there. Elevator to the second floor, then right, right again, left—and you should find Rachel Roland’s office.”
It was abundantly clear that he was no longer open to questions after that. Not for a What? or Sorry, could you repeat that? He’d spoken so fast, and I’d been so focused on not being nervous, it was over before I could even grasp he was giving me directions.
First step: badge. Then gate. I got that much.
I’d packed my leather tote meticulously last night. Laptop, notebook, lunch. Pens and badge in the extra pocket inside. So, I wasn’t sure why on earth I couldn’t find the latter. I stopped short of the gate, a forced smile on my lips when I made brief eye contact with the lady behind the counter.
“Can I help you?” she asked, only making me search more desperately. Her blond ponytail screamed no bullshit.
Fuck. Where was that damn badge?
I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry. Just—there it is!” Although it left the inside of my bag in a state of unprecedented chaos, relief flooded my veins. Ponytail couldn’t possibly begin to understand just how much of it when she gave me a polite smile and turned back to her computer.
Meanwhile, my heart still sounded like it was beating in sync to an EDM song when I scanned my badge and got to the elevators. Not tripping in the lobby wasn’t really an accomplishment, but it felt like one.
I pressed the button for the second floor (that much I still remembered) and tried not to marvel at the inside of the elevator too much.
Textured light panels, marbled floor with the signature Ashwood bow engraved in the middle.
The mirror opposite the doors made me aware of something else that didn’t usually happen: I looked a mess.
Yes, my cheeks had gone back to their normal color and no longer resembled the natural red of my hair, but the latter was all over the place.
Ginger strands stood in every possible direction, caught in the buttons of my shirt, and no longer screamed, Wow, she’s got her life together!
even though I’d wielded that blow-dryer like a wand this morning.
Unfortunately, my curtain bangs no longer had that perfect wave in them either.
Note to self: more hairspray.
I tried to salvage what I could, brushed the front pieces behind my ear, and scurried out of the elevator.
Everything—from the logo on the opposite wall to the couch below it, the gleaming white floors and the light-pink accents, the bouquets on pillars lining the hallways in both directions—screamed luxury.
Expensive and better than you in every sense.
If I remembered my onboarding sheet correctly (and I did), the second floor held meeting rooms and personal offices, while the floors above housed the archives, atelier, and spaces to welcome clients and models and whatever other external stakeholders might come in.
My gaze swept through the hallway one last time. What had he said? Right, left, right again? I usually had no problem recounting directions, but I was more nervous than I’d like to be when I set off.
I passed offices with a single glass panel through which you could see inside, and behind each one was at least one person hunched over a computer, sketching, or pacing with a phone to their ear.
Small golden name plaques decorated the doors, with a bow engraved above familiar names like Sheffield, Rodriguez, and Laurent: the heads of Adeline Ashwood’s design team and brains behind every new collection. I tried not to screech.
Another wall held framed black-and-white prints of their most iconic pieces, presented on models at fashion shows or celebrities at galas.
I couldn’t help but slow down and soak up the fact that I was really here, working for the people who had created these.
Iconic dresses, staple bags, and accessories that were worn by anyone who’s anyone.
One day, hopefully, designed by yours truly.
Adeline Ashwood by Maeve Peterson.
It had a nice ring to it that eventually lured me farther down the hall, around corners, until there was just one door at the end of the hallway without a name plaque or glass panel to see through.
One look at my phone cemented a decision I’d made the second I’d seen the room. It was almost nine. Which left me basically on time—almost too late for my first day—and there was no need to wait until I really was.
I knocked.
Nothing. It took so long, I’d already raised my hand again when the door finally flew open and a small woman with tortoise-rimmed glasses blinked back at me. Her black ponytail was sleek, not a single strand out of place. My eyes grazed the top of her head, focused on something else entirely.
Not an office.
A meeting room, every single chair except for hers occupied with men in suits and women in blazers and pencil skirts. Authority and power oozed out of every single one of their pores. My gaze snapped back to Rimmed Glasses, her eyes as wide as mine, like she could just about imagine my horror.
“Yes?” she squeaked. My hand lowered all on its own, and if it wasn’t for every single pair of eyes on us, I would’ve probably tried to pinch myself out of this very realistic nightmare scenario.
Because one of those pairs belonged to Hunter Ashwood, piercing blue eyes more intimidating than they should’ve been from a distance. It wasn’t just the look on his face, though. It was the way he sat, pin straight, hands folded on the table. The crisp four-piece suit without a wrinkle in it.
And, yes, that expression too. Unwavering, relentless, still looking at me.
It took everything in me not to stutter when I said, “Sorry. I’m looking for the intern . . . welcoming?”
Totally made-up name, but what was I supposed to do?
Behind Rimmed Glasses, some lips quirked. Mouths went to ears, and whispers floated through the room until a single shift of Hunter Ashwood in his seat shut every single one of them up again. If possible, I got even smaller in the doorway, but the woman in front of me was too tiny to hide behind.
She blinked at me like she couldn’t quite believe I was here either. “To the left, straight ahead, left again.”
I nodded—vigorously—and didn’t even manage to say Thanks! before the door closed between us.
Left, straight, left again.
This time, the directions burned right into my brain. In five years, I’d still be able to recount them in my sleep. A trauma response, maybe. Something that would forever remind me of what my first meeting with Hunter Ashwood had been: a complete disaster.
I found the Roland name plaque exactly two minutes before nine, right where both the security guard and Rimmed Glasses had promised it’d be. The coffee vending machine in front of it was a sign, I think. A gift from the universe that said, Things will get better now.
They had to get better, starting with that coffee. The past thirty minutes hadn’t just shaved twenty years off my life, but the caffeine already in my system had immediately given way to panic and adrenaline and shame, leaving space for the next fix currently trickling into a to-go cup.
I was tired. I needed a minute to collect myself, preferably with a black coffee and some breathing exercises. Before Rachel could swoop me up into what would turn into . . . the best day of my life?
The coal-black liquid (that seemed to be complimentary, thank God) filled the cup to the rim, and I took a deep breath to mark a new beginning. The last thirty minutes hadn’t happened.
I’d walked into Adeline Ashwood without incident, immediately found my way, and had been so early, I still had time to get a coffee.
I took a long sip, and it washed the embarrassment straight out of my body. I was probably first-degree burning the inside of my throat, but the wake-up call was needed.
Stop fucking around, Maeve.
When I opened my eyes, I almost felt normal again. Like I could go in there and finally nail at least one of my first impressions of the day—never mind that it was the fourth one. Just in time, the clock read nine on the dot, and a door opened behind me.
And it all happened so fast, there was nothing I could’ve done.
I turned, ran straight into a chest, the cup slipped out of my grasp, and trying to catch it only resulted in its contents spilling directly onto the stranger’s crisp white shirt. And shoes.
Fuuuuuck. Hot liquid dripped off him, and I was very aware that this might be my second attempted assault of a stranger in the span of minutes. Screw trying to be positive; today literally couldn’t get any worse.
He cursed like a sailor, shook his arms out, and tried to keep the drenched shirt from burning his skin. Judging by his pained hisses, he was quite unsuccessful.
“I’m so sorry—” I said, reaching for the enormous stain, but attempting to rub it out only made it worse, so I finally looked up at the guy whose day I’d just ruined.
And . . . fuck again. Apparently, it could get worse.