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The polished marble of the Sterling Enterprises lobby reflected Eleanor’s heels as if mocking her every step. Glass, chrome, and silence reigned here—nothing like the messy, toy-littered floors of her apartment. Her resume was tucked inside her bag, but it felt like a flimsy shield against the weight of this place.
She took a deep breath and adjusted the cuffs of her blazer, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her ears. The receptionist—sleek in black, with the bone structure of a model—barely looked up as she gestured Eleanor toward the private elevator.
“The thirty-ninth floor. He’s expecting you.”
He. The CEO. Marcus Sterling.
As the elevator doors slid shut, Eleanor caught her reflection in the mirrored panel—poised, neutral, untouchable. She'd practiced that look. It was armor.
But nothing prepared her for what waited behind the towering double doors.
The office was cavernous, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a staggering view of the city below. And there, standing with his back to her, was the man himself. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders drawn tight beneath a custom-cut charcoal suit. He turned slowly at the sound of the door closing.
And Eleanor's breath caught.
It wasn't the elegance of the suit or the commanding air he wore like a second skin. It was the face. The same sharp cheekbones. The same strong jawline. The same raven-dark hair that flopped slightly when he moved. And the eyes—God, those eyes. Unmistakable.
Leo’s eyes.
Older, colder, and sharpened by power, but still—the resemblance was undeniable.
For one suspended moment, time lost all meaning. Her stomach plunged. Her knees threatened to give.
But Marcus Sterling didn’t flinch. His gaze swept over her, professional and impersonal, as if she were just another applicant on a list.
“Ms. Quinn?” he asked, his voice clipped, precise.
She nodded, somehow finding her voice. “Yes. Thank you for seeing me.”
“Let’s begin.”
She sat down. The chair was too firm. The room was too bright. Her entire body was screaming. He didn’t recognize her. Not yet.
The interview passed in a blur. Questions about scheduling, organization, adaptability. She answered with automatic precision, each response polished by years of freelancing under pressure. But inside, she was unraveling.
Because every time she looked at him—really looked—she saw Leo’s future face staring back at her. And every time he looked at her, unaware, she felt the burn of the secret clutched so tightly in her chest it was a wonder she could breathe at all.
When he finally leaned back in his chair, assessing her with unreadable eyes, she sat straighter.
“You’re efficient,” he said. “Organized. You don’t waste words. I like that.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice steady, even as her hands clenched in her lap.
“I'll be making a decision quickly. My assistant’s last day is next Friday.”
She nodded, rising with practiced calm. “Understood. I appreciate your time, Mr. Sterling.”
He stood as well, offering a courteous but distant handshake.
“Thank you for coming in.”
As she walked back to the elevator, her limbs felt boneless. Her mouth tasted of copper.
She had just sat across from the father of her child.
And he didn’t even know.
