See for Yourself

The sun hasn't even breached the horizon when I find myself standing on Valeria’s porch, practically drowning in Thatcher’s oversized button-down shirt and his grey joggers. The chilly morning air bites at my exposed skin, but the numb, hollow sensation settling deep in my chest keeps me from caring. Leaving the suffocating wreckage of my engagement dead in my wake was empowering in the moment, but now the adrenaline is fading, replaced by a desperate, frantic need to escape. This upscale, quiet neighborhood is the absolute last place on earth I ever wanted to be. Valeria, my intimidating boss, is the absolute last person on earth I ever wanted to confide in. Yet, as I shift my weight from one worn sneaker to the other, I know she represents my one and only ticket out of Boston.

Drawing in a ragged, deep breath, I reach out and press the doorbell. The sharp chime echoes through the sullen silence of the early morning. Heavy footsteps approach from the other side, sounding like a slow drum roll leading up to the massive plot twist of my rapidly unraveling life.

The heavy oak door swings inward. Valeria stands there, wrapped in a silk robe, her fiery red hair slightly mussed from sleep.

"This better be a life-and-death—" Her sleep-laced voice instantly dies in her throat as her sharp eyes rake over my pathetic, disheveled appearance. "What the hell happened to you, Elena?"

I glance down at the clothes that swallow my small frame completely. The faint scent of Thatcher’s expensive cologne still clings to the cotton, a cruel, nauseating reminder of the man who just destroyed us. My hair is a tangled, chaotic mess, and my face is undoubtedly red and puffy from crying.

"Can I come in?" I ask, my voice sounding flat and hollow.

Without missing a single beat, Valeria steps aside. She doesn't ask another question. She just turns and leads me straight into her immaculate, modern kitchen.

I climb onto a sleek metal stool by the breakfast bar, feeling like a stray dog that just wandered into a pristine palace. Valeria immediately busies herself at the high-end espresso machine. The rhythmic, low purring of the coffee maker is the absolute only sound cutting through the incredibly heavy, suffocating silence stretching between us. It gives me a moment to gather my fractured thoughts, to swallow down the lingering grief and replace it with sheer determination.

Finally, the machine beeps. Valeria turns around, leaning against the cold marble counter and crossing her arms over her chest. "You are here for a reason."

I let out a long, exhausted sigh. Valeria and I are not friends. In fact, she openly dislikes me for reasons I still haven't managed to figure out. But she holds the power to authorize transfers.

I look her dead in the eye, straight into her probing gaze, and flatly demand, "I want the client in Miami."

Her perfectly shaped brows twitch. The movement is so incredibly small I almost miss it. She turns back around, slowly filling two porcelain cups with steaming black coffee. Each passing second drags by with agonizing slowness as I wait for her to instantly reject me. I can hear the erratic, frantic thudding of my own heartbeat drumming against my ribs.

She turns back, offering me one of the cups before taking the tall chair directly across from mine. She takes a slow, deliberate sip, peering at me intently over the rim of her mug. She remains perfectly calm, completely unfazed by my sudden demand. "Convince me why I should give it to you."

On the desperate, tear-blinded drive over here, I had meticulously rehearsed the perfect, polished corporate lie. I was going to spin a tale about needing a new challenge, about how my specific portfolio was perfectly suited for the Miami demographic, about how this was a calculated, strategic career move for the firm. But sitting here, wearing the clothes of the man who just shattered my entire future, the corporate bullshit turns to ash in my mouth. I don't have the energy to lie. Lying to a woman as sharp as Valeria won't get me anywhere anyway.

So, I strip away every last ounce of my pride and hand her the raw, bleeding truth.

"My engagement is over," I say, my voice cracking slightly before I force it steady. "I know you hate me. I know we don't get along. But I desperately need to get far away from this city. Right now. Today."

I press my lips tightly together, keeping my spine completely straight. I mentally pat myself on the back for not breaking down and sobbing in front of my intimidating boss.

Valeria sets her coffee cup down with a soft clink. Her gaze softens just a fraction. "I don't 'hate' you, Elena," she gently corrects, her tone unusually careful.

"You don't like me," I press, needing to establish the reality of our dynamic.

A sudden, genuine chuckle escapes her lips. She reaches up, tucking a stray strand of fiery red hair behind her ear. "Yes, I openly admit I don't like you."

I draw in a deep, fortifying breath, preparing to launch into a desperate monologue about my unwavering work ethic and why I absolutely won't let my personal disaster affect the Montiero account. But before I can even open my mouth to argue, she completely derails my train of thought.

"You got the job."

To my absolute bewilderment, she says it without a single ounce of further resistance.

"Yeah?" I whisper, completely thrown off balance. "Um... thank you."

I somehow manage to keep my outward composure, keeping my face perfectly neutral, but deep inside, pure, unadulterated relief crashes over me. It’s a tiny, desperately needed victory in the middle of a catastrophic, life-altering night.

Valeria nods, picking up her coffee again and taking another slow sip.

"One question," I ask quietly, terrified that pushing her might make her instantly revoke the offer. "Why? Why are you being so accommodating?"

She looks at me, her eyes tracing the exhaustion and heartbreak etched into my features. The answer she gives permanently lodges itself into my brain.

"Because I see myself in you, Elena."

Two agonizing, frantic hours later, my entire life is zipped up and packed into bags. I’ve never been a light traveler, but condensing my entire existence into two suitcases in under one hundred and twenty minutes has to be a personal record.

Throughout the chaotic rush to the bustling airport, Valeria's cryptic words replay like an out-of-tune song in my head. I didn't press her on what she meant. I didn't ask why she was so suddenly willing to cover for me at the office, or what hidden agenda she might be harboring. As long as I successfully get out of Boston, I don't care about the corporate politics.

The sun is blindingly bright by the time I arrive at the aviation terminal Valeria directed me to. Our company driver, Orson, is already waiting for me near the entrance. With his shiny bald head and prominent beer belly, he isn't hard to spot in the morning crowd. He's three inches shorter than me, but his loud presence makes up for it.

He spots me, offering a huge, genuine grin, and shuffles over. "Ms. V said you're leaving?" he asks, handing me a thick manila envelope.

"For business," I reply curtly, actively avoiding a longer, drawn-out conversation with him. "Valeria got me a flight?"

I tear the envelope open, expecting to find a standard boarding pass. I dig my hand inside, pulling out client files and background documents. But absolutely no plane ticket.

Sheer panic mercilessly claws at my stomach. My breath hitches. Where is the ticket? Did she forget? My greatest fear instantly surfaces—Thatcher. Thatcher is a powerful, calculating lawyer with vast, terrifying connections. He warned me that if I walked away, I would lose him forever, but if his ego gets bruised enough, he absolutely has the resources to track down a commercial flight manifest. He could easily trap me before I can successfully escape.

"There's no ticket in here," I say, my voice rising in visibly mounting dread.

Orson simply chuckles, his belly shaking with amusement at my panic. "She didn't get you a ticket, kid."

"What?" I gasp, the panic rapidly spiraling into terror.

"She booked you a private jet."

"What?" I repeat, the word coming out as a stunned, breathless whisper.

Before I can fully process the sheer absurdity of the situation, I am being ushered out onto the private tarmac.

Aboard Mr. Montiero’s outrageously opulent jet, I feel entirely, embarrassingly out of place. I sink into a plush, dove-gray leather seat, staring wide-eyed at the palatial, five-star interior. There's a sleek glass table, custom seating arrangements, and a stunning white, gray, and black aesthetic that screams ridiculous, unfathomable wealth.

I am sitting in the middle of millions of dollars of cutting-edge aviation engineering, dressed down in a simple, baggy t-shirt, Thatcher’s huge joggers, and a pair of worn sneakers.

"Miss Kaelen?"

I jump slightly. A sharply dressed flight attendant stands nearby. She’s wearing the crispest, most perfectly tailored charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She smiles graciously, radiating absolute professionalism. "Would you like tea, coffee, or water?"

"A glass of water, please. Thank you," I manage to say, my mouth suddenly feeling completely dry.

She brings it immediately, then looks at my exhausted, puffy face with a gentle, sympathetic expression. "May I also offer you breakfast, Miss Kaelen? It is a three-hour flight to Miami."

I deeply consider her offer, taking in the stunning clear blue sky through the luxury window. But my heavy, exhausted eyes remain glued to a long, incredibly plush couch wedged on the other side of the cabin. It looks significantly softer than the actual bed I sleep in every night.

"Actually," I say sheepishly, lowering my voice. "Would it be okay if I sleep on that couch during the flight?"

Her warm smile deepens as she glances at the couch and then back at me. "The cabin in the back is much more comfortable for a proper rest. Let me show you."

She escorts me to an even more luxurious, utterly private cabin in the back of the jet. There is a full-sized bed. I don't even bother taking off my clothes. I just collapse onto the mattress, and the gentle hum of the jet engines instantly pulls me into a deep, dreamless darkness.

I wake up completely refreshed just as the wheels touch down in Miami. The private jet even had its own immaculate bathroom, complete with a shower and tub, which I absolutely intend to utilize if there is ever a repeat of this insane experience.

Stepping off the plane and onto the sun-drenched tarmac, the thick, humid Florida heat instantly wraps around me.

A sleek, luxury town car is already waiting near the plane. Standing right beside the open driver’s door is a strikingly handsome man in a crisp black-and-white suit. He has dark, unruly curly hair that’s neatly brushed back, though a few mischievous strands fall perfectly across his forehead. But it's his eyes that completely catch me off guard—incredibly deep, expressive Latin eyes that seem to analyze my every move.

"Where to, Miss?" he asks politely.

"Excuse me?" I ask, completely baffled as I meet his gaze.

He tilts his head to the side, his brown eyes watching me carefully. "Do you want to be taken to the office, or the penthouse?"

The question catches me completely off guard. Office? Penthouse? Having fled Boston in such a frantic, emotionally shattered state, I slept the entire three hours. I haven't even cracked open the thick Montiero client files Orson handed me. I have absolutely no idea where I'm supposed to be going or what living arrangements Valeria made for me.

I blindly parrot the word, "Penthouse."

His eyes instantly crinkle at the corners with deep, unrestrained amusement. A knowing smirk tugs at his lips. He easily deduces my embarrassing secret in a matter of seconds: I flew in totally unprepared.

"I gathered you haven't read his file yet?" he asks, letting out a warm chuckle.

I only notice then that he has a flawless, perfect American accent, despite his sharp, striking Latin features. My cheeks flush hot with intense embarrassment. I shake my head, feeling completely exposed.

He throws an arm casually over the open car door, facing me directly. He flashes a bedazzling, heart-stopping smile. "Let me give you a brief background about the boss, then." His tone shifts slightly, offering a stark, serious warning beneath his charming exterior. "The high-priced consultants they brought in before you didn't even last a single week. They studied his behavior for months, pitched grand, complicated corporate plans to the board, and promised they could fix his tarnished reputation. None of them survived."

Since he has already figured out that I am utterly clueless about the details of my own assignment, I swallow my pride. I step closer to the car, staring right back at him.

"Okay," I dare to ask. "What exact image am I supposed to be changing?"

The handsome driver lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. He turns his back to me and slides into the driver's seat to start the luxury car.

"See for yourself."