I HAD THE DEVIL'S TWINS

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE INTERVIEW

Anne's POV

The Ashford Industries tower rose forty stories above Crestfall City's financial district, all glass and steel and intimidating wealth. I stood at the base, craning my neck to see the top, and felt my stomach do an uneasy flip.

You've got this. You've been preparing for months. You're qualified. You're capable. You're...

"Mommy, why are you staring at the building?"

I looked down at Mira, who was clutching my hand and eyeing the tower with suspicion. She'd insisted on wearing her favorite dress, the pink one with the sparkly unicorn for our "big adventure downtown."

"Just nervous, baby." I smoothed her hair, wishing for the hundredth time that I could afford a babysitter for today. But Mrs. Peterson from the apartment next door had agreed to watch Mira for two hours, and that would have to be enough.

"You'll do great," Mira said with absolute confidence. "You're the best mommy ever."

I kissed her forehead. "Wait here with Mrs. Peterson. I'll be back before you know it."

Mrs. Peterson, a sweet older woman with lavender hair and too many cats, took Mira's hand. "We'll be at the café across the street. Take your time, dear."

I watched them cross to the little coffee shop, Mira's unicorn backpack bouncing with each step. Then I took a deep breath, straightened my blazer, the only nice one I owned, purchased from a thrift store and tailored by hand and pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby.

The inside was worse than the outside. Marble floors gleamed so brightly I could see my reflection. A waterfall cascaded down a living wall of moss and ferns. People in expensive suits walked with purpose, their heels clicking against the stone like they owned the place.

Pretend you belong here. Fake it till you make it.

I approached the security desk, where a guard with a shaved head and kind eyes looked up from his computer.

"Anne Monroe," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm here for the ten o'clock interview with the hospitality division."

He checked his screen and nodded. "Tenth floor. Take the public elevators to your left, then check in with reception."

"Thank you."

I turned toward the elevators and immediately got distracted by the directory board mounted on the wall. Ashford Industries owned so many companies. Hotels, shipping lines, real estate developments, even a tech startup incubator. The sheer scale of it made my head spin.

And the CEO is Dante Ashford, I read. Forty floors. Penthouse office.

Something about the name made me pause. Dante. Where had I heard that name before? It tugged at something in my memory, a thread I couldn't quite pull.

"Miss? The elevators are this way."

I blinked and realized I'd been standing in the middle of the lobby like an i***t. "Right. Sorry. Thank you."

I hurried toward the bank of elevators, my heels echoing too loudly in the marble silence. There were two sets—one with brass trim and a sign reading PUBLIC, another with chrome and a discreet plaque: EXECUTIVE • AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY.

I was so focused on the public elevators that I didn't notice someone had propped open the executive doors for cleaning. I slipped through the chrome doors without thinking, my mind still on the interview questions I'd practiced in the mirror.

The elevator was nicer inside, polished wood panels, a small leather bench, buttons that went all the way to forty. I pressed ten and watched the doors close, feeling a tiny surge of victory.

See? You can do this. You belong here.

The elevator hummed upward. I checked my reflection in the polished wood, hair okay, makeup not smudged, blazer straight. I looked professional. I looked competent. I looked like someone who deserved a chance.

The doors opened, and I stepped out quickly, my mind already running through my opening statement. Good morning, I'm Anne Monroe, and I believe I'm the ideal candidate for this position because—

I walked straight into a wall.

Except it wasn't a wall. It was a man. A very tall, very solid man in an extremely expensive suit. I bounced off his chest like a tennis ball and stumbled backward, my heel catching on something, his shoe, the carpet, I don't know—and then I fell.

His hand shot out and grabbed my arm, pulling me forward instead of down. But the momentum was wrong. I crashed into him again, my face pressing against his chest, my fingers grabbing fistfuls of his jacket to keep from falling. He staggered back against the wall, and somehow—I still don't know how, my hair got caught.

On his zipper.

Of course. Of course, my hair got caught in a strange man's pants zipper. Because the universe clearly found my humiliation hilarious.

"What the...." he started.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm..." I tried to pull back and immediately regretted it as pain shot through my scalp. "Ow, ow, ow, stop moving!"

"I'm not moving! You're the one attached to my..." He broke off, something like choked laughter in his voice.

"I know what I'm attached to, thank you!" I was bent over at an awkward angle, my face inches from his belt, my hair tangled in metal teeth. This was literally my worst nightmare come to life. "Can you just—hold still—"

"I am still..."

"Then why won't it come loose?"

"Maybe because you're panicking?"

"I'm not panicking!" I was definitely panicking. My fingers fumbled at the zipper, trying to free the strands of hair wrapped around each tiny tooth.

His body was warm under my hands. He smelled like expensive cologne and something else—something familiar that made my stomach do a strange flip.

Focus, Anne. Free your hair. Escape this nightmare. Never speak of this again.

His hand closed over mine, warm and surprisingly gentle. "Stop. You're making it worse. Let me."

I froze as his fingers took over, carefully working the strands free. He was so close. If I looked up, I'd be able to see his face clearly for the first time. But I didn't look up. I couldn't. I was too busy trying not to hyperventilate.

"There," he said finally. "You're free."

I straightened so fast I nearly fell again. My face was burning, my hair a disaster, my dignity in shreds. And there he was—the man I'd just used as a human scratching post.

Tall. Dark hair, perfectly styled even after our collision. Steel-gray eyes that were watching me with an expression I couldn't read—amusement? Annoyance? Something else? He was handsome in that cold, polished way rich men always were, like a statue that happened to wear suits worth more than my annual income.

And those eyes. Something about them made my skin prickle.

"Are you okay?" he asked. His voice was deep, controlled, with an edge that suggested he didn't ask that question often.

"I'm fine," I snapped, because embarrassment had curdled into defensive anger. "I wouldn't be in this position if you hadn't been standing there like a brick wall."

One dark eyebrow rose. "I was standing in front of the elevator. Where people typically exit."

"Maybe you should stand somewhere else next time."

"This is my building. I stand where I want."

"Congratulations on owning a building. Do you want a medal, or will your ego sustain itself?"

His eyes widened slightly. I'd surprised. Good. Rich people needed to be surprised more often, and reminded that the rest of the world didn't bow to their every whim.

I reached up to fix my hair, realized it was hopeless, and gave up.

"Look, I don't have time for this. I have an interview. A real one, for an actual job, not a 'standing around looking decorative' position, which you seem to have nailed, by the way. So if you'll excuse me you self—absorbed asshole."

I stepped around him, head high, pretending my face wasn't the color of a fire extinguisher.

"Wait," he said.

I didn't wait. I marched down the hallway toward the reception desk, my heels clicking with as much dignity as I could muster. Behind me, I heard a low chuckle that made my skin heat all over again.

The receptionist—a polished blonde with a smile that didn't reach her eyes—looked up as I approached. "Can I help you?"

"Anne Monroe. I'm here for the ten o'clock interview with the hospitality division."

She checked her computer, then frowned slightly. "Ms. Monroe, the interviews are being conducted on the fortieth floor. Mr. Ashford's office."

My heart stopped. "The fortieth floor?"

"Yes. Didn't security tell you? The executive elevator is—" She looked past me, and her face changed completely. A professional smile became genuine, almost reverent.

"Good morning, Mr. Ashford."

I turned slowly.

The man from the elevator was walking toward us, straightening his cuffs like he had all the time in the world. His gray eyes met mine, and that almost-smile flickered at the corner of his mouth.

Mr. Ashford. As in Dante Ashford. As in CEO of this entire empire. As in the man whose zipper I'd just been intimately acquainted with.

"No need to announce her," he said smoothly. "Ms. Monroe and I have already met. Follow me."

He turned and walked toward a set of double doors without waiting to see if I followed.

I stood there, frozen, my brain screaming a long string of expletives.

The receptionist gave me a look that was half pity, half curiosity. "You should probably go. He doesn't like to wait."

I followed. After all, what choice did I have?