Chapter Three
1145 Words
Skylar's POV
I’m in a Manhattan hotel room, staring at my reflection like it’s a pop quiz I didn't study for.
New York.
A fresh start.
Or maybe a temporary escape from my own stupidity.
It’s been a month since the elevator incident.
Thirty long, humiliating days since I kissed a stranger so hard I nearly forgot my name, only for him to check his phone mid-makeout and tell me his wife was on her way.
Since then, I've avoided men like a plague.
Carrie says I’m overreacting. I say I’m healing.
"You were hurt and emotionally unstable. So you're allowed to make mistakes." Those were her comforting words.
Right. I still hold on to the words.
I swipe on lipstick, smooth my hair, and whisper to my reflection, "Don't mess this up."
This is my first hire job since I quit working for my mother, all thanks to my favourite professor, Mrs. Loretta, who recommended me when Mrs. Lawrence needed a lawyer on short notice. Apparently, all her usual lawyers are booked, and she has to close a deal with a high-profile client today.
My flight and hotel are covered for the two days I'll be spending.
I look outside the window and the city hums loud and alive. Of course, it's New York, the city that never sleeps.
A calm knock on the door, "Skylar?"
Thank God I'm ready.
"Good morning Mrs Lawrence." I open the door with a smile.
She looks impeccable, tall, slender, mid-forties, blonde hair perfectly curled under a white pantsuit that screams money and authority.
"You look good, Skylar,” she says flatly. “And I don’t want to be disappointed.”
“Thank you for the compliment… and the uncertainty.” I roll my eyes a bit.
I forgot to add, Mrs Lawrence's quite mean and a very “I own three companies and a yacht” type of woman.
The kind my mother wishes I’d become.
“Loretta said you’d do fine. I trust Loretta.”
Right. Loretta. Not me.
I nod, trying not to let it sting. “Understood.”
We take the elevator down. Mrs. Lawrence taps her foot impatiently, like the universe should move faster for her.
Her Uber’s already waiting. A black SUV, tinted windows. She checks the license plate like she’s in a crime documentary.
We get in and head straight.
***
FORD CORPORATION gleams across the glass facade like it owns the city.
I know the Corporation's run by Colin Ford, who’s been rumoured to run for the United States of America's next presidency.
As we step out of the car and step in the building, I swear my heart skips.
The air smells like ambition and luxury, like expensive cologne and secrets.
"Don’t get lost, Sky,” Mrs. Lawrence mutters. “The receptionist’s over there.”
I’m tempted to take a video, but her glare stops me mid-thought.
The receptionist is stunning. Like, model stunning. “Good morning. You're here for Mr. Ford?” She takes one look at the appointment details on her Apple desktop.
"Yes, please." Mrs. Lawrence responds.
"Thirty-second floor. Mr. Ford’s secretary will meet you there.” She looks up to us.
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
The elevator doors close behind us. My pulse matches the rising floor count.
I have a weird feeling about elevators now.
Thirty-two floors. Oh, damn.
The soft ding snaps me out of my thoughts.
A woman in a pale pink dress stands waiting, petite, with a smile that looks both practised and perfect.
“Welcome, Mrs. Lawrence and Miss. Johnson,” she says.
"Thank you…?” I ask.
“Jessica.” Her tone is bright, professional. “Mr. Colin Ford will see you now alongside his son.”
His son?
Shit. There's no time to Google who his son is before I make a fool of myself.
We follow her down a long hallway lined with abstract art that probably costs more than my student loans.
She knocks gently and then opens the door.
And for a second, I forget to breathe.
This isn’t an office. It’s a penthouse in the sky.
The windows stretch over the skyline and light floods the room. The air hums with quiet power.
Colin Ford stands near the desk, tall, gray at the temples, refined in that old-money way that doesn’t need to say much to own the room.
He shakes my hand firmly after Mrs Lawrence. "It's Nice to have you here. It’s refreshing to see someone young and competent in this field.”
“Thank you, sir,” I manage, trying not to stammer.
“Please,” he says, gesturing toward the chairs.
"My son should be joining us any second. He’s handling the corporate end of this project.”
Right. The mysterious Heir.
I nod, opening the folder to distract myself, flipping through contracts I barely see. My mind’s running autopilot until I hear it.
A deep, familiar voice.
“Sorry I’m late. Had a call that ran long.”
The sound of the voice send chills down my spine. My throat goes dry.
It can’t be.
Footsteps. Measured. Confident.
The scent of expensive cologne and an intimate memory.
I look up.
And there he is.
Descending the glass steps from the upper office level like he’s walking straight out of my worst hangover dream.
Black suit, confident stride, the same swept back dark curls that I had tangled around my fingers a month ago.
My brain short-circuits.
He stops beside his father, calm, composed, the perfect image of a powerful heir. Only his eyes betray him, flickering when they meet mine.
Colin smiles, oblivious to the chaos happening inside me. “Miss. Johnson, this is my son, Carter Ford. He’ll be taking over the operational contracts after today.”
I’m frozen, every nerve in my body screaming.
Carter extends a hand. “Miss Johnson,” he says smoothly, like we didn’t almost tear each other’s clothes off in an elevator. “A pleasure.”
His tone is all business, but his gaze? It’s the same one from that night, dark, unreadable, like he’s both amused and curious to see how I’ll react.
Mrs Lawrence chatting about numbers and terms, but I can’t hear a word.
I shake his hand.
It’s warm. Familiar. Dangerous.
I force a smile. “Likewise, Mr. Ford.”
Colin clears his throat. “Shall we begin?”
“Of course,” Carter answers smoothly, his eyes still locked on me. “Let’s get started.”
I drop my gaze to the contract, but my hands tremble just slightly.
Of all the people in New York, of all the offices, all the meetings, all the goddamn cities in the world...
It had to be him, someone else's husband I kissed and made out with in an elevator.
A billion dollar playboy.
I'm screwed.
- Writer
