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My brothers and I want our chain to offer a true luxury experience, beginning with the design and extending to every machine, every game, and every detail our clients encounter.

“If you asked me to come out here,” she says, settling onto one of the garden sofas with a trace of accusation in her voice, “just to tell me you don’t like it and don’t want to work with me…”

Her words trail off, but her gaze never leaves mine as she waits for my response.

The corner of my mouth threatens to lift.

That delicate, fairy-like face of hers, those expressive eyes, they’re hopeless when it comes to making her look intimidating.

“Why so defensive, Selene?” I ask, unable to resist teasing her a little. “And why didn’t you tell me you were the designer I’d be meeting?”

“Zayn,” Jesus. The way she says my name, wrapped in that Romanian accent she either refuses to lose or simply can’t, sounds far too fucking good. “How was I supposed to know you had no idea I was the one who renovated your parents’ houses?”

She twists open her bottle of vitamin water and takes a small sip without looking away from me.

I don’t sit beside her. I remain standing, barely a step away, close enough to notice the faint vanilla scent clinging to her skin.

“Besides, I don’t have your number, and if I’d sent you a message on social media, it would’ve disappeared among the thousands of requests I’m sure you get every day.”

She finishes with a hard eye roll.

There’s something in her voice. A hint of reproach. Or maybe it’s just that accent scrambling my thoughts again.

“So…” she says when my silence stretches on. “Do you like it or not?”

A quiet chuckle rumbles in my chest as I reach for her hand and help her to her feet. She slips her fingers into mine without hesitation.

“I think you’re every bit as good as you claimed to be,” I tell her, avoiding a direct answer.

She catches it immediately and keeps watching me, waiting for the rest.

“If you’d told me you were the designer, we could’ve skipped this entire trial day,” I continue, my voice balancing between teasing and accusation. “The job is yours, Selene.”

For a moment, her already wide eyes grow even bigger.

Then satisfaction spreads across her face, followed by a triumphant smile.

“Good decision, Zayn Thomas.”

Her grin widens, bright and utterly self-assured.

“I’m the best you could find.”

Yeah. I fucking know that.

FOUR

Selene

I don’t know where to fit my straightener, the dryer, the curling iron, the styling products, the dye.

My bags are already packed, yet I’m still standing in the middle of the room, turning in place with that restless, unfocused energy, trying to figure out where to put the things I can’t function without.

The air smells faintly of heat protectant and hairspray, traces of routines I won’t have time for once everything starts moving.

I left them for last, just to make sure I’d place them in one of the bags I’ll always keep within reach, but there’s no space left. Not even a corner.

So I’ll have to take another small suitcase. Just for them.