Rainbow

First Impressions

The rhythmic ticking of the wall clock in the Angels' reception area was beginning to sound like a countdown to Maya Palmer's inevitable doom.

She sat on the edge of the plush, charcoal-grey leather sofa, her spine stiff and her hands clasped tightly in her lap. The reception area alone screamed wealth, with floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the bustling city skyline, polished marble floors that reflected the warm ambient lighting, and minimalist display cases showcasing the brand's signature collections. Delicate, dark lace bras, silk robes that looked like liquid gold, and embroidered intimate wear were displayed like priceless pieces of art.

Angels wasn't just a lingerie brand; it was a global empire built on raw sensuality, intimacy, and luxury. And Maya was currently sitting there, praying she could just secure a job as a retail store attendant.

It wasn't what she had spent years studying for in school. She had a degree, a mind full of ambitions, and a completely different career path mapped out in her head. But reality had hit hard. The job market was a barren wasteland, her bank account was hovering dangerously close to zero, and the stack of bills sitting on her kitchen counter didn't care about her academic achievements. She was broke, desperate, and running out of time. At this point, she would gladly take any position Angels offered, no matter how entry-level, as long as it paid enough to keep a roof over her head.

"Maya Palmer?"

The sharp, synthesized voice over the reception speaker made her flinch. Maya swallowed the lump of anxiety in her throat, stood up from the sofa, and smoothed down the fabric of her navy blue skirt. She took a deep breath, trying to channel a confidence she absolutely did not feel, and walked down the long, quiet corridor toward the designated interview office.

When she pushed the door open, the welcoming atmosphere of the reception area vanished. Sitting behind a massive, sleek mahogany desk was a middle-aged woman. She wore sharp, wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously low on her nose, and her face was set in a permanent, severe expression. She didn't look up immediately, her eyes tracking down a document in front of her.

Maya stood in front of the desk, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her hands were shaking slightly at her sides, the cold sweat of nervousness dampening her palms.

"Sit," the mean-faced woman said, her voice clipping the air like a pair of shears. She still hadn't looked up.

Maya quickly took the seat opposite her, instantly clasping her trembling hands together on her lap to hide the shaking.

"Ms. Palmer," the woman said, finally lifting her gaze. Her sharp eyes peered over the rims of her glasses, cutting right through Maya before she looked back down at the paper. "I am Mrs. Gable, the HR director for retail operations. I am looking through your CV here, and to be quite frank, you are entirely overqualified for a basic floor attendant position. Why are you here?"

Maya forced a polite, steady smile, anchoring her voice. "While my educational background is extensive, Mrs. Gable, I believe the core skills I've acquired… discipline, analytical thinking, and effective communication, translate perfectly into high-end customer service. A luxury brand like Angels doesn't just sell products; it sells an experience. I want to be the person who ensures clients feel valued, comfortable, and understood the moment they step into the boutique."

Mrs. Gable's expression didn't soften in the slightest. She flipped a page over. "The clientele at Angels can be exceptionally demanding, often expecting absolute perfection and discretion. How do you handle high-stress situations or difficult customers who think they are above the rules?"

"I believe in de-escalation through empathy and professionalism," Maya answered smoothly, the answers flowing naturally despite the knot in her stomach. "A customer's frustration is rarely personal; it's usually about an unfulfilled expectation. By remaining calm, listening intently, and addressing their core concern without pushing back, I can protect the brand's reputation while turning a negative experience into a loyal relationship."

Mrs. Gable hummed softly, a sound that gave away absolutely nothing. She leaned back in her chair, tapping a designer pen against the mahogany wood. "Final question, Ms. Palmer. Angels is a brand rooted in intimacy and confidence. If a client is deeply self-conscious about her body while fitting our high-end lingerie, how do you guide her toward a purchase?"

"Confidence isn't something we force onto someone; it's something we help them uncover," Maya said, her eyes locked with the interviewer's. "I would focus entirely on comfort and silhouette, highlighting how the craftsmanship of Angels is designed to celebrate her unique shape, not alter it. It's about making her feel seen and celebrated in her own skin."

Mrs. Gable stopped tapping the pen. For a long, agonizing moment, she simply stared at Maya over her glasses, her mean face unreadable. Finally, she closed the folder with a sharp snap. "That's all for now, Ms. Palmer. We will review our candidates and contact you by the end of the week."

Relief washed through Maya so intensely she almost sighed out loud. She had answered perfectly. She knew she had.

"Thank you so much for your time, ma'am," Maya said politely.

She stood up from the chair, her mind already racing with a sliver of hope. But as she turned around to walk toward the door, her luck ran out.

The cheap, high heels she had bought specifically to look professional suddenly betrayed her. Her left foot slipped on the ultra-polished floor, her heel bending violently to the side. Maya gasped, losing her balance entirely. In a flash of blind panic, her hand shot out, her fingers scrambling desperately across the edge of Mrs. Gable's mahogany desk to anchor herself before she crashed to the floor.

The loud thud of her hand hitting the wood echoed in the quiet office.

Maya froze, her weight awkwardly balanced, her heart in her throat. Slowly, mortified beyond belief, she straightened up and looked back at the desk. She forced a strained, highly awkward smile to her face, hoping to laugh it off.

Mrs. Gable didn't laugh. She just kept that severe, mean face, staring at Maya with an expression that clearly questioned her basic coordination.

"Apologies," Maya muttered under her breath, her face burning a bright crimson as she turned and practically fled the room.

The moment the heavy office door clicked shut behind her, Maya tapped her forehead with the palm of her hand, utterly embarrassed. Why the heck did these shoes want to embarrass her today of all days? She scolded herself silently, glaring down at it. She should have worn something comfortable, something broken in, instead of trying to play high-fashion model in cheap, unstable heels.

Staring down at her feet so she doesn't trip again and completely consumed by her own internal spiral of shame, Maya kept walking briskly down the corridor toward the main exit. She never saw the person turning the corner.

Oof!

She slammed directly into a solid, unyielding frame. The impact sent a jolt right through her already unstable heels, and she stumbled backward, her arms flailing slightly as she fought to keep her balance.

"I am so sorry! I wasn't looking where I was going, I am so…" The apology died abruptly in her throat.

As she looked up, her words evaporated into thin air. Standing directly in front of her was a woman, and the sheer, commanding aura radiating off her was enough to make the air in the hallway feel heavy.

Maya's eyes met a pair of striking, piercing blue eyes. They were ice-cold, staring down at her in absolute, unbothered annoyance at the interruption.

No way.

Maya's breath hitched, her gaze involuntarily moving up and down the woman standing before her, taking in every single detail in a state of stunned paralysis. Her eyes tracked the flawless, pitch-black hair that framed a sharp, aristocratic jawline. Her gaze fell to the woman's lips, a perfect, natural pink, currently set in a tight, displeased line.

Down her elegant neck, Maya's eyes lingered on the slightly opened silk red shirt. The top two buttons were undone, exposing the smooth, pale curve of her breast and the subtle glint of a delicate gold necklace. Further down, the shirt was tucked into tailored black shorts that stopped high on her thighs, showing off an endless stretch of long, perfectly toned legs that ended in a pair of towering, red designer heels.

The realization hit Maya like a physical blow, a cold dread pooling instantly in her stomach.

What had she just done?

This was Alessia Carter. The brilliant, sexy, and untouchable owner of Angels.