I pulled into the Vaughn Tech parking garage, my Range Rover sliding perfectly into the spot labeled "Reserved: R. Blake." Day one. No turning back. I let out a shaky breath, straightened my pencil skirt, and grabbed my Dutch Bros caramel frappe like it was holy water.
Elevator up. 11th floor. Marketing HQ.
DING.
The doors opened, and there he was. Jacob Vaughn. Mr. All-American Charm in tailored slacks, leaning casually like he wasn’t a billionaire in disguise.
"Good morning, Rory," he said, smile blinding. "How are you this morning?"
"Great! Excited to get started."
"Good. We have a meeting in about 30 minutes. Let’s get you to your office."
Walking through the halls of Vaughn Tech was like stepping into a tech-fueled dream. Sleek. Glossy. Expensive. But when we got to my office?
