"The Battle of the Billionaires"

Chapter 1: “A Storm in Her Heels” The rain had not been in the forecast, but New York seemed determined to test Ava Cruz’s resolve that morning. By the time she burst out of the crowded subway station, the sky had opened like a vengeful curtain of needles. Her cheap umbrella flipped inside-out at the first gust, and the hem of her only good skirt was already soaked. She clutched her portfolio to her chest, shielding it with her body as she dodged the tide of commuters. Of course, she thought bitterly, the day I face the most important interview of my life is the day the city decides to drown me. The Blackwell Tower loomed ahead — fifty stories of steel and glass wrapped in mist like a crowned titan watching her struggle across the street. It was the kind of building that could make even seasoned professionals feel small. For a girl from Queens who’d once sketched dresses on scrap paper in a tiny bedroom, it felt almost alive, breathing ambition and intimidation in every pane of glass. Ava reached the revolving doors breathless, cheeks burning from the cold rain. She stepped into the lobby — all black marble floors, chrome accents, and a chandelier that looked like frozen lightning. The air smelled faintly of leather and expensive coffee, a scent that made her painfully aware of the raindrops sliding off her coat onto the pristine floor. The receptionist’s eyes flicked up, polite but assessing. “Good morning. May I help you?” “I’m—Ava Cruz,” she stammered, tugging her damp hair behind her ear. “I… I have an interview with Mr. Grant for the junior designer position.” The receptionist’s smile thinned just enough to show pity. “You’re five minutes late. But Mr. Grant hasn’t gone in yet — third elevator on the left, thirty-fifth floor.” “Thank you.” Ava offered a nervous smile and hurried toward the elevator, her heels clicking a little too loudly against the marble. She jabbed the call button and muttered under her breath, “Five minutes isn’t late. It’s fashionably on time… right?” The elevator dinged open and, to her dismay, was already occupied — by two men who looked like they belonged on the cover of a financial magazine. One stood with his hands in his pockets, tailored charcoal suit, tall, unreadable. The other was leaner, a silver tie catching the light as he scrolled on his phone with an easy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Ava stepped in, pressing herself to the side, trying to shrink into the corner as the doors slid shut. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored panel: damp hair clinging to her cheeks, mascara smudged under her eyes. Perfect. Just the image of a confident young professional… not. The man in the charcoal suit finally glanced at her. His eyes were an icy blue, sharp enough to feel like they cut through her damp façade to the nervous beating heart beneath. No smile. Just a cool, assessing look before he returned his gaze to the floor indicator. Something about that look made her stomach tighten, though she didn’t know if it was irritation or… something else. The elevator hummed upward in silence until the man with the silver tie finally spoke. “Rough morning?” His voice had that kind of warm, low timbre that could charm anyone at a bar or a board meeting. Ava blinked. “Is it that obvious?” He chuckled softly. “Only because I’ve been there. Blackwell Tower’s not very forgiving when you’re running late.” Her cheeks flushed. “Well, I just hope it’s forgiving enough to let me pass the interview.” Before he could respond, the elevator chimed for the thirty-fifth floor. The tall man in the charcoal suit stepped out first, and Ava followed, determined not to stare. She headed straight toward the receptionist’s desk. “Miss Cruz?” the floor receptionist greeted. “Mr. Grant is expecting you. This way, please.” She was led through a glass-walled hallway lined with framed sketches of iconic Blackwell designs. Each piece represented decades of fashion history — legacies of designers who’d once stood where she now stood. It was almost enough to calm her nerves… almost. Mr. Grant’s office smelled faintly of old books and cedar polish. The senior creative director, a man in his sixties with silver hair and round glasses, greeted her with a handshake and a thin smile. “Ava Cruz. I’ve heard you’ve got an eye for bold lines. Let’s see what you’ve brought.” Relieved to be on familiar ground, Ava opened her portfolio, her fingers steadying as she flipped through her sketches: sleek evening gowns, experimental textures, modern silhouettes with classic notes. Grant nodded thoughtfully as he studied each page. “These are raw but refreshing,” he said finally. “I like your sense of movement. The Blackwell style has been… stagnant lately. We could use fresh energy.” Ava felt a flicker of hope but kept her voice polite. “I’ve always admired Blackwell’s legacy. I’d be honoured to learn and grow here.” Grant leaned back, steepling his fingers. “This role isn’t easy. The CEO demands precision, and the fashion division has been under immense pressure since the last merger.” The door opened abruptly. The tall man from the elevator stepped inside, exchanging a brief nod with Grant before his gaze landed on Ava again. That same unreadable expression. “Liam,” Grant said, rising slightly in respect. “We were just reviewing Miss Cruz’s work.” Liam. The name clicked in Ava’s mind with a jolt. Liam Blackwell — the CEO himself. For a second she forgot how to breathe. She’d just shared an elevator with the man who practically owned half the skyline. Liam’s gaze swept over her portfolio, then back to her. “New hire?” His voice was deep, calm, the kind that filled the room even without volume. “Interviewing for junior designer,” Grant supplied. “She’ll need to do better than ‘junior’ if she wants to survive this quarter,” Liam said coolly, then turned to Grant. “We’ll talk numbers at the board meeting.” Without another word, he left, the door clicking shut behind him. Ava’s heart hammered. She wasn’t sure if she felt insulted, challenged, or intrigued — maybe all three. Grant sighed. “Don’t take it personally. That’s just Liam Blackwell. He’s… demanding.” “I can handle demanding,” Ava said before she could stop herself. There was steel in her voice that surprised even her. Grant’s eyes crinkled as if he approved. “We’ll see. You’ll hear from HR soon.” When Ava left the office, the rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, the city still grey but no longer threatening to drown her. She stepped out of Blackwell Tower with her soaked shoes squeaking on the pavement, a faint, defiant smile tugging at her lips. Something told her her life had just changed — and she wasn’t sure yet if it was for the better or the worse.