Page 4 of Ruled By Rivalry

The blue of his eyes was harder to spot once they narrowed further, brow ticking in irritation and a million other appropriate things as he took me in. An Ashwood, coffee-d on by an intern on her first day. He was probably figuring out a way to get me fired—rich people weren’t necessarily known for their generosity and forgiveness.

“Seriously,” I pressed in some kind of attempt to keep my job for at least a minute longer. “I’ll replace it. It’s no problem.”

His lips twitched, but not in forgiveness or amusement or any other even remotely positive way I’d hoped for. His eyes flicked down and back up my frame. Once. Quickly. “I doubt that.”

He was angry. He had a right to be pissed and a right to speak to me like he was pissed. But—“I said I’m sorry.” I’d always had issues holding my tongue. “There’s not much more I can do.”

He cleared his throat in a way that screamed money and power and I’ve always gotten everything I ever asked for. Crossing his arms, his brow quirked. In surprise or amusement? I couldn’t tell. Probably both. “No. But you could have avoided it.”

I was begging myself to get a grip, to calm down and not take his words—or the way he was dissecting my outfit piece by thrifted piece—too personally before I said things I didn’t mean. But thanks to Mom, I had an especially low tolerance for men’s bullshit. “You’re right. I should’ve opened the eyes we famously all have in the back of our heads,” I said.

“Just your ears, and you would’ve heard me come in.” He shrugged, like this conversation meant nothing to him and the way he so clearly had an effect on me was simply a bonus. “But, I gotta hand it to you. This”—Elliot gestured to the stain—“is certainly a unique way to get the competition out early.”

I grimaced in confusion, a feeling I wasn’t all too familiar with. “What—?”

But there was an “Ah!” that would cut every conversation in a ten-foot radius off, and we happened to be within that perimeter. The girl standing in the doorway to Rachel’s office appraised us both with a look that said, So glad you guys are getting along already. “Mister—” She shook her head. “Sorry. Elliot, Maeve. Come in. Rachel’s ready for you.”

The question mark above my head must’ve doubled in size. I was surprised no one had noticed it yet. But I couldn’t focus on figuring this—him and his appearance and the fact she’d insisted on his first name—out when I had one last shot at a first impression that mattered, and we were being led to Rachel Roland’s office three seconds later.

In a last-ditch effort to impress (or at the very least, not disappoint), I pulled the knitted vest over my head and let any evidence of spilled coffee on me disappear in my bag. Just in time.

Gray bob, cold blue eyes, skin that should be wrinkled but wasn’t. Rachel was one of Adeline Ashwood’s most senior employees, and maybe that’s why I immediately felt like the new girl on her first day of high school. Being judged, assessed, put into a box.

I didn’t think I’d make the uniquely gifted one this time.

Elliot stepped next to me, pocketing his phone and crossing his arms lazily. I didn’t let myself glance in his direction, but I envied his nonchalance. That this was probably a random Monday for him, meeting his grandfather’s closest adviser. Meanwhile, I was so nervous, I felt like I might vomit.

His presence wasn’t helping, and the words still lingering in my head made it worse. Competition for what? I was an unpaid intern, not a possible future CEO.

Rachel scanned us, lingered on my messy hair and the stain on his shirt, but didn’t comment on either. It must’ve been at least a minute before she finally cleared her throat, stepped around the desk, and started talking.

“The Ashwood Internship Program is one of the most sought-after opportunities in the industry. It’s definitely the most selective, and therefore the most competitive. You’re here because we believe you can excel in, learn from, and support the fast-paced, high-pressure environment we offer at Adeline Ashwood. We don’t just create luxury, we are luxury, and we conduct ourselves that way in and out of the office.” A pointed glance in Elliot’s direction. “I won’t sugarcoat it. The next three months are going to be brutal. Long hours, lonely nights. You and sketchbooks and emails and loads of coffee.” Another glance, this time at the stain. “Preferably not on your clothes. We believe in giving you the same responsibilities we’d give full-time employees, because that’s what you’re supposed to become. Your focus will be on assisting a head designer, and the Ashwood Annual.”

The industry event, ranked above every fashion week of every city.

“Of course, there will be moments that feel rewarding. Getting through a fashion show, making a deadline that seemed impossible, designs that get approved. Sometimes, these things happen, and they are what we live for. But this program isn’t to reward you. It’s to show you what it’s like—really like—to work in luxury fashion, and to give you enough information to be able to answer the question, Do I want this for myself?”

That answer was a loud, resounding Yes! No need to wait three months for it.

“Everyone knows that getting a foot in the door of Adeline Ashwood is the hard part, so congrats! Once you’re in, we tend not to let you go, which is why we only have one intern in each department.”

It’s one of the reasons why, out of several internship offers, I chose them. Because getting to be at Adeline Ashwood usually meant you’d be staying a while. Working your way up the ranks.

With that reminder, every single mishap of the past hour was forgotten. Who cared if I’d embarrassed myself in front of a security guard? Walked into a meeting? Spilled my coffee?

Okay, I cared, a little bit—but the feeling was nothing compared to the excitement coming back up at her words. I’d gotten my foot in the door of Adeline Ashwood. I was doing what I’d always wanted, and what Mom had always wanted for me.

All those nights spent on her lap, sitting at the sewing machine, and watching her create magic with nothing but scrap fabric and threads had led me right here.

My spine straightened, my smile turned less polite and more genuine. The Elliot Ashwood–sized question mark above my head was all forgotten about.

Until her eyes flicked to him. “We . . . had to change things up this year.” I hadn’t needed her glance to know that this was his doing, somehow. He’d told me plainly before I knew what to do with the information.

This is certainly a unique way to get the competition out early.

Get the competition out early.

Competition.