BOUNDLESS: A Heart With No Boundaries

*Chapter One* : The interview

The coffee on Ethan Black's $5,000 suit was my fault.

I didn't mean to do it. I swear.

I was seven minutes late for the most important interview of my life, my cheap heels clicking too loud on the marble floor of BLACK Atelier, and I was holding three things — my portfolio, my resume, and a venti takeout coffee that Sophia said would make me look professional and busy.

Professional and busy girls don't spill coffee on billionaires.

But I did.

The doors of the elevator opened on the 42nd floor and he was right there. I didn't see him at first because I was staring at my shoes, praying they wouldn't break.

Then I crashed into a wall.

Except the wall was wearing a black Tom Ford suit and smelled like expensive cologne and cold winter.

The coffee flew. Time stopped.

The brown liquid landed perfectly — perfectly — right across his white shirt and his suit jacket.

The portfolio went flying. My resume pages scattered everywhere like confetti.

I looked up.

And I forgot how to breathe.

He was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Sharp jaw. Dark hair perfectly styled. Eyes so gray they looked like a storm. And he was looking down at me like I was a bug he wanted to crush.

"Do you know how much this suit costs?" he said. His voice was low. Cold. The kind of voice that makes interns cry.

"I — I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry, I didn't see you, I —"

"You're Lena Cole. 9 AM interview. You're late."

He knew my name.

Of course he knew. He was Ethan Black. The CEO. The man who owned this entire building. The man who could end my career before it even started with one phone call.

His assistant, a blonde woman in red heels, rushed over. "Mr. Black, I will —"

"Leave it," he cut her off, not looking away from me. He took off his jacket slowly, never breaking eye contact. Underneath, his white shirt was ruined. Coffee was dripping down his chest.

I wanted the floor to swallow me.

"I can pay for dry cleaning," I blurted out. "I have... I have $112."

That made one of his eyebrows go up. For the first time, something other than anger flickered across his face. Amusement.

"You have $112 and you bought a $7 coffee to spill on me?"

"It was for you!" I lied. It sounded stupid even to me. "I mean — not FOR you. I thought — for the interview —"

He stared at me for three long seconds. Then he turned to his assistant.

"Vanessa, cancel my 9 AM. And get me another shirt."

Vanessa — I would later learn she was Vanessa Kane, lead designer — smirked at me like I was already fired.

"And you," he said to me. "You have five minutes to show me why I shouldn't have security walk you out. My office. Now."

He walked away, leaving his coffee-stained jacket on the floor. Like I wasn't even worth handing it to.

I picked up my scattered resume, my portfolio with the broken strap, and followed him, my heart beating so loud I was sure everyone on the 42nd floor could hear it.

His office was glass and black and cold. Just like him. No photos. No plants. Only rules framed on the wall:

1. No emotions in design.

2. No excuses in work.

3. No boundaries crossed.

I didn't understand that last one yet.

"Show me," he said, sitting behind his massive desk in his ruined, coffee-stained shirt. He didn't offer me a seat.

With shaking hands, I opened my portfolio. My sketches. My life for the past two years. Dresses inspired by heartbreak, by Lagos sunsets, by women who love too much.

He flipped through them, his face giving nothing away. Page after page. My Boundless collection. A dress with a heart sewn on the sleeve that bleeds into flowers.

Then he stopped.

On the last page. The dress I had drawn last night on my bedroom floor.

A simple white dress, but with no hem. The fabric just continued. Like it had no end. Like love with no boundaries.

He stared at it for a long time.

"Who taught you to design like this?" he asked quietly.

"No one," I whispered. "I just feel it."

He looked up at me, and for the first time, his storm-gray eyes weren't cold.

"Feelings don't sell, Miss Cole. Boundaries do."

He closed my portfolio.

"You spill coffee, you're late, you're emotional. You have every reason I should reject you."

My eyes filled with tears. I bit my lip to stop them.

"But," he said, leaning forward, "you have one thing none of my designers have."

"What?"

"A heart with no boundaries. In fashion, that's either going to destroy you... or make you a star."

He stood up.

"You start Monday. 6 AM. Don't be late. Don't spill coffee on me again. And Miss Cole?"

"Yes?"

"That $112? Keep it. You'll need it."

I walked out of his office in a daze. Vanessa glared at me from her desk. The other designers whispered.

I didn't care.

I had done it. I had gotten the job at BLACK Atelier.

I had just spilled coffee on the most dangerous man in New York.

And somehow, he had hired me anyway. I stood outside his office for a moment, everyone was staring at me, whispering about the girl who ruined Ethan Black's Tom Ford suit.

But I also knew this was the beginning of everything I had ever dreamed, my hands trembling, my cheeks hot, my heart racing so fast I thought I might faint.

I knew everyone was of since I was a little girl sketching dresses Ottawa.

My journey in New York had been lonely and hard and broke, but maybe, just maybe, it was finally turning around today for good and forever.