Chapter 4: A Month Later

New Orleans

Mia Cruz jolted awake at the sound of her alarm shrieking through the silence. With a groggy groan, she slapped at her phone, missing twice before finally silencing it. Blinking against the early morning light filtering through her curtains, she forced herself upright.

Her body protested, every muscle stiff from the awkward way she had slept. She hadn’t even changed out of yesterday’s clothes. Again.

Rubbing her eyes, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and checked the time.

8:15 AM.

Her heart lurched.

“Shit!”

She was late. Again.

Got it! Here’s the revised version with her blonde straight hair:

⸻

Bolting from the bed, Mia yanked off her wrinkled dress and sprinted into the bathroom, her bare feet slapping against the cold tiled floor. A sharp chill raced up her spine, but she ignored it, twisting the shower knob on full blast. Lukewarm water cascaded down, shocking her system awake as she stepped under the spray.

She worked quickly, grabbing her shampoo and squeezing a generous amount into her palm. The scent of vanilla and honey filled the small space as she massaged it into her scalp, her fingers working through the long, silky strands of her blonde hair. Suds slid down her back as she rinsed, the water washing away the last traces of sleep.

Next was conditioner. She worked it through the full length of her hair, her fingers gliding effortlessly through the straight locks before she rinsed it all out. She had no time to linger—the clock was ticking.

She turned off the shower and stepped out, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her body. The cool air nipped at her damp skin as she briskly patted herself dry, her movements hurried but efficient. Without hesitation, she tossed the towel aside and made a beeline for her wardrobe.

Throwing open the doors, she skimmed through her clothes before pulling out a crisp white blouse and a knee-length navy skirt. Classic. Professional. Safe. She slid the blouse over her head, tucking it neatly into the fitted skirt before fastening the zipper at her side.

Next, she turned to her shoe rack, grabbing a pair of black heels and slipping them on as she rushed back to the bathroom mirror.

Her hair.

It hung in damp strands over her shoulders, sticking to her skin. She reached for her blow dryer, flipping it on and running her fingers through her hair as warm air blasted through. It took only a few minutes before it was smooth and sleek, falling just past her shoulders in a perfect cascade of gold.

Satisfied, she grabbed a small bottle of perfume and spritzed it on her wrists and neck, the floral scent wrapping around her.

One final glance in the mirror. She smoothed her blouse, adjusted her skirt, and let out a sharp breath.

She was ready—sort of.

A quick spritz of perfume. A swipe of lip gloss.

She checked the time again. 8:30 AM.

Her stomach clenched. Damn it. She was running late—again.

Cursing under her breath, she bolted toward the kitchen, her heels clicking frantically against the floor. There was no time to cook, no time to sit down and enjoy a proper meal. Every second counted. She yanked open the bread bin, grabbed a slice, and slathered a hasty layer of peanut butter across it, her hand moving so fast that some of it smeared onto her fingers.

She didn’t bother wiping it off. Instead, she stuffed the bread into her mouth, chewing as quickly as possible while reaching for the canister of instant coffee. She scooped a heaping spoonful into her mug, poured hot water from the kettle, and stirred vigorously. The rich, bitter aroma filled the small space, but there was no time to savor it. She took a large gulp, the heat burning her tongue, but she swallowed it anyway. The caffeine hit her system instantly, jolting her awake.

It was a pathetic excuse for breakfast—just a single slice of bread and a few desperate sips of coffee—but there was no time for regret. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, grabbed her bag, and rushed toward the door.

Her fingers fumbled with the keys as she locked up, the urgency making her movements clumsy. Once the door was secured, she spun on her heel and broke into a speed-walk, her strides long and determined as she made her way to the nearest bus stop.

The morning air was crisp, wrapping around her in a fleeting embrace, but the warmth of the rising sun stretched across the sky—a quiet warning that the city would soon be swallowed by another hot day.

As she reached the stop, a bus screeched to a halt, doors hissing open. She barely managed to squeeze inside before the driver took off again. The bus was packed with half-asleep commuters, some scrolling through their phones, others staring blankly out the window.

Mia held onto the overhead rail, her mind already racing through the tasks ahead.

Get to work. Avoid Mr. Gravitas’ wrath. Survive the day.

Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the towering office building. She all but ran through the lobby, ignoring the disapproving glances from the receptionist, and reached her cubicle just as the clock struck 9:00 AM.

She had barely settled when a sharp voice cut through the air.

“Miss Cruz!”

Her stomach twisted.

Bracing herself, she stood and turned to see Mr. Gravitas standing outside his office, his piercing gaze locked onto her.

Well, here we go.

⸻

Mia sat stiffly in front of Mr. Gravitas, nodding along as he laid out her latest assignment.

“Marco Valentino,” he said, his deep voice carrying an air of authority as he slid a thick file across the polished mahogany desk toward her. The name alone sent a ripple of recognition through her, though she masked it well, keeping her expression neutral.

She reached for the file hesitantly, her fingertips grazing the smooth cover as her boss leaned back in his chair, studying her with sharp, expectant eyes. “He’s launching an ambitious orphanage project,” he continued, his tone measured but firm. “One that, if executed properly, could change the lives of hundreds of children. Our company has committed to sponsoring a quarter of it, which means we need to ensure we’re not just writing checks—we need to be seen as an indispensable part of the initiative.”

Her brows furrowed slightly as she opened the file, scanning the neatly organized documents and financial projections.

“But here’s the catch,” he added, steepling his fingers. “Valentino is a difficult man to win over. He’s selective about who he allows into his business dealings, and he doesn’t partner with just anyone. Trust is everything to him, and one misstep—one minor flaw in our pitch—could cost us this entire opportunity.”

She swallowed, her pulse quickening as she absorbed the weight of his words.

“I need you to prepare a presentation that will convince him we’re the right choice,” he continued, his voice carrying the undeniable ring of finality. “Something compelling. Impeccable. Leave no room for doubt.”

She looked up at him, already anticipating the impossible deadline he was about to set.

“And I need it by tomorrow,” he finished, his gaze locking onto hers. “9:00 AM sharp.”

Mia’s stomach twisted. “Tomorrow? But—”

A glare silenced her.

“I suggest you get started now,” he said coolly, waving her away.

She clenched her jaw but nodded, taking the file before walking back to her desk. The moment she sat down, she let out a silent scream into her hands.

Just another impossible task. No big deal.

With a sigh, she switched on her computer and got to work.

Hours passed in a blur.

She barely noticed the office emptying as night fell. The only light left in the room was the glow from her desk lamp. Her fingers ached from typing, but she was finally getting somewhere.

When she checked the time, it was past 9:00 PM.

Groaning, she saved her work, packed up, and made her way out of the office.

Outside, the streets were quieter, bathed in the soft glow of streetlights. She caught a late bus home, squeezing into a seat by the window. The city blurred past, but her mind was too exhausted to process anything.

By the time she reached her apartment, her limbs felt like lead.

She kicked off her heels and stumbled toward the bathroom, shedding her clothes as she went. The warm water of her shower was a welcome relief, soothing her aching muscles. She took her time, letting the heat ease the tension from her shoulders.

After drying off, she pulled on an oversized T-shirt and padded barefoot to the kitchen. Too tired to cook, she pulled out leftover pasta from the fridge, reheated it, and ate in silence.

Finally, she crawled into bed, sighing as her body melted into the mattress.

As exhaustion claimed her, one thought lingered.

Tomorrow is going to be hell.