The Billionaire’s Orphan Bride

The Call

Elena pov

The phone rang just as I was scrubbing down the tiny kitchen counter in my apartment.

I didn't almost answer bill collectors, telemarketers, wrong numbers were my usual callers. But something about the timing made me snatch the receiver.

“Miss Rivera?”

My heart stuttered. “Yes, this is Elena.”

“This is Harold Walsh from Blackwood Enterprises. You applied for our executive assistant position.”

My breath caught. The words seemed too big, too impossible, to be meant for me. “Yes, I… I did.”

“I’m calling to schedule an interview. Tomorrow morning at nine sharp. Will you be able to attend?”

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe and think. Blackwood Enterprises.

And now they wanted her.

“Yes,” I blurted, my voice trembling. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Walsh said briskly. “Report to the twenty-second floor reception desk. Don’t be late.”

The line clicked dead.

I lowered the receiver with shaking hands.

I had an interview.

With Blackwood Enterprises.

My knees gave out, and I sank onto the couch, pressing my hands over my mouth. A laugh broke out half disbelief, half wonder.

That night, I tore through my tiny closet. Most of my clothes were worn, threadbare. But tucked in the back was a charcoal skirt I'd bought at a thrift shop for “someday.” Alongside it hung a cream blouse, slightly too big but professional enough if I tucked it in just right.

I ironed them carefully, humming under my breath to keep my nerves steady.

Next came my shoes, scuffed black pumps, their soles thin, but they would have to do. I polished them as best as I could.

By midnight, my outfit was hanging neatly on the door.

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at it, my heart thudding with a mix of fear and excitement.

I imagined myself walking into Blackwood Enterprises, head high, pretending I belonged. I imagined shaking hands with polished executives, answering questions with confidence I didn't feel.

And, secretly, I imagined Adrian Blackwood himself even if I had never met him.

I had seen his face in magazines, impossibly handsome, untouchable, powerful and now that I think about it he looked similar to the guy who saved me, but there is no way he could be in that neighborhood. The idea of working for him seemed unreal.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I whispered to herself, cheeks flushing. “He won’t even notice you. You’ll just be another assistant.”

But still… When I finally lay down to sleep, my last thought was of dark eyes and sharp lines, of a man who seemed carved from stone.

And for the first time in years, I fell asleep not with dread for tomorrow.

But with hope.