a P

we

lorious, terr

future. I had sent out over a hundred job applications. My resume was a joke. Four years

silence, punctuated by the occa

t for

for an interview for an 'entry-level analyst' position.

y hands clammy. The off-the-rack pantsuit I'd bought felt cheap and flimsy

a Da

ate that read 'Chloe Foster', looked me up a

that

low

keyboards, voices murmuring into headsets. It was a world away from the stifling, tradition-bound silence of the Bl

rosted glass door. She gave it two sharp

nd smooth, came from

ce against my ribs. I pushed t

w of the city. A man stood with his back to me, staring out at the urban sprawl. He was tal

lio holding my pathetic resume. The p

int, mocking amusement that made my cheeks burn. He didn't tur

peak. "Yes, sir. But I'm a fast learn

yl

rned

ld tilted o

telligent brown, were wide with disbelief. The cocky smile I'd gli

with a smudge of dirt on his cheek, sitting on a log in the woods behind the orpha

anished in

was a whisper, a b

nmistakable confidence of a man who was used to being in charge. The boyish

ver looked at me and not seen an orphan, a burden. He'd be

stopped right in front of me, his tall frame blocking out

d a stray strand of hair from my face. A gesture so familiar, so achingly reminiscent of

id urge to cry. I wasn't that lost little girl

lt both necessary and wrong. "Mr. Sterling," I said, my voic

e playful smirk returned to his lips, but it didn't re

e. He looked at me as if I were a ghost he'