JULIA

My reflection looked utterly deceiving.

The mirror was showing me a different woman than usual, with bright pink lipstick, thick dark eyelashes, hazel contact lenses, and shoulder—length chestnut hair. She looked like she'd just come from a party—not the one who'd always worn square—framed eyeglasses and hair in a tight bun.

You changed yourself for the better, so you won't look older than your age.

I was turning twenty—six this year, but I was still a late bloomer. I didn't take too much time in front of the mirror, and I never cared about my appearance until I realized why men don't date wallflowers like me. In short, I was unattractive.

And in trouble.

I was fifteen minutes late, according to my wristwatch; I came back yesterday from a two—week peaceful vacation in Southampton. I wasn't supposed to return today, but I had grown tired of my boss's frustrating calls and e—mails. He had called me repeatedly, saying he needed me back at once. It wasn't easy to work as an executive assistant to a boss who couldn't even make a decent cup of coffee.

Adam Cavendish was one of the most infuriating men I had ever met. He was the kind of man who munched work for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, then disappeared on Friday afternoons; I was guessing he was looking for supermodels he could screw on weekends. He was a man who had a suit designer, owned several limited—edition shoes, and wore a different thousand—dollar watch every day. He was also, unfortunately, a boss who required his employees to work twenty—four—seven. There were times I wanted to slap him for being a clueless prick.

At first, my job sounded promising. I worked for the CEO of Cavendish Enterprises—a top architecture and interior design firm in Manhattan. Every economic magazine, newspaper clipping, and internet news site was plastered with his name. Entrepreneurs called him a genius, and women named him the sexiest man alive.

Pfft! If only they knew. My job was supposed to be his assistant, not his maid.

I stepped into Mr. Cavendish's office. He didn't notice me until I placed a cup on his desk, as he was busy scribbling on his table. The strokes of his favorite Montblanc black fountain pen were the only sound I could hear.

I cleared my throat to get his attention.

"Good morning, Mr. Cavendish," I greeted, smiling pleasantly at him; it almost hurt my lips.

My boss smirked, still writing.

"Good morning. It's good that you're back. I can't manage this alone."

"Well, I'm here now," I said. "How's the Maxima Motors contract? I'm sorry I wasn't there during the signing but did it go well?"

My boss, as usual, still looked magnificent in his Vanquish three—piece gray suit and classic pompadour haircut. The cream he applied to his hair was shimmering against the office light.

"Good. Everything's fine," my boss answered and didn't bother to look up.

"Hmm," I sang. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Nothing at the moment," he replied simply.

"I'm going back to my desk then."

He didn't respond. I turned and was about to exit when Adam called for my attention.

"Ah, Julia..."

"Yes?"

He frowned, and his jaw hardened. "Julia?"

"What is it?"

"Julianne Taylor?"

I frowned. "I believe you've been repeating my name. What's wrong?"

"Is that you?" He put down his pen, then wiped his face down to his chin.

I blinked. "Yes, what's wrong? You looked like you've seen a ghost. Do I look bad?" I asked curiously.

"Hell no! You look great, but what did you do?"

"What do you mean, and why the question? Well, I got a new haircut." I touched my shoulder—length hair with my palm.

"As I can see, it's just that—you never wear a skirt."

I glanced down at my gray pencil skirt. It wasn't even my first time wearing one, though I usually wore trousers. Maybe he didn't notice.

I set my eyes back on him. "It's a makeover." I shrugged.

My boss studied me, from my red high heels to my top, under his lashes; then, he shifted to the other side of the chair.

"Fine. Now, you can leave."

"Yes, sir."

"Ah, Julia…"

"Yes?"

"You can leave early this afternoon."

"Are you sure? I thought we—"

"I said you could go home early," he cut me off. "Henry is coming today. I'm taking him out."

"Sure, Mr. Cavendish. Is there anything else you need?"

"Nothing. You can go."

I didn't answer. I left his office, sighing as I march back to my workspace.

Henry Cavendish. I licked my lips as I recalled the reason for my makeover. I wanted to be a new person. I wanted to impress my boss's brother.

I met Henry, his brother, at the gala I attended last summer. While Adam Cavendish was a man who would always exasperate me, Henry was the kind of man I wanted to marry. He was a gentleman, sweet, and not to mention ridiculously hot. Though both of them shared the same features, Henry seemed more compassionate, unlike his older brother, who frequently roared at simple things.

Mr. Cavendish had informed me of his brother's arrival from Los Angeles before I took my vacation. He had appointed Henry as the new Vice CEO of the company, and despite my boredom working for his grumpy older brother, that news caused a twinge of excitement inside me.