I’m covering the main 28th floor reception desk because apparently the universe has a twisted sense of humor. The courier situation for the R&D facility is a logistical nightmare involving three separate package pickups, a signature requirement that keeps bouncing between departments, and a delivery window that’s closing in approximately seventeen minutes.
My phone is pressed between my ear and shoulder. My laptop is open to the courier tracking system. I’m simultaneously trying to confirm authorization codes while walking the deliveryman downstairs through building security.
Totally got this.
The elevator dings.
I glance up automatically, still half-listening to the courier dispatcher explain why the second package hasn’t been scanned yet.
And then I forget how to breathe.
The woman who steps off the elevator looks like she walked straight out of a luxury fragrance commercial. She’s tall, blonde, and impeccably dressed in something that probably costs more than my monthly rent, my student loan payment, and my meal prep budget combined. Her hair falls in perfect waves that definitely required a professional blowout. Her makeup is flawless in that “I woke up like this” way that takes two hours to achieve.
But the thing I notice most? The thing that makes me immediately want to sink through the floor?
Thecleavage.
And I’m not talking about tasteful. I’m talking about a neckline that plunges so deep it’s practically spelunking. And the way she’s carrying herself makes it crystal clear she knows exactly what she’s working with.
Great.
Just great.
A hot Victoria’s Secret model is walking toward me and I’m wearing my backup blazer because I spilled yogurt on my good one this morning.
“I’ll call you back,” I say into the phone, and hang up before the dispatcher can object.
The woman approaches the desk with a smile that looks friendly enough but doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Definitely something predatory about it. Like a cat who’s spotted a mouse and is deciding whether it’s worth the effort.
“I’m here to see my brother Martin Hale,” she announces. Even her voice is perfect. Musical, even.
Jesus.
“And your name?” I ask, pulling up the visitor log on my screen.
“Gabriella Hale,” she replies daintily.
I peruse the log. “There’s no Gabriella Hale on the visitor log.”
Her smile sharpens. “Where’s Piper?”
I return her smile sweetly. “On break.”
She frowns. “Andyouare?”
“Bree Dawson.” I straighten my spine the way I always do when I feel small. “Mr. Rossi’s executive secretary.”
Amusement flickers across her face.
“What happened to the last one? Never mind. Soyou’rethe new secretary.” She says it like she’s commenting on a particularly disappointing appetizer. “How... quaint. I hope you’re better at filing than your predecessor.”
The dismissal hurts, especially coming fromher.
I feel heat creeping up my neck.
This woman is everything I’m not. Confident. Beautiful. Connected. The kind of woman who walks into rooms and commands attention without trying. The kind of woman men like Nico probably date.
Stop it.
