Chapter 3 Emery's POV

If you ever thought rock bottom was a place, I can confirm it's a state of mind. And I was currently living in it, rent-free.

Because, you know, what's worse than getting fired for spilling a $500 glass of wine on a walking Armani mannequin? Being screamed at afterward by a plastic-surgery-sponsored rich bimbo with a voice that could shatter glass.

I didn't even know her name, but her overdrawn lips and overly tweezed brows were etched into my memory forever. She stood there, nose up in the air like I'd just wiped my peasant hands on her silk purse.

"No wonder you work as a server," she'd hissed at me, "You don't even know how to walk properly."

Ma'am, I was walking fine until your exorcist-level screaming sent me tripping over my own dignity.

Now, here I was, curled up in my tiny apartment with an empty fridge, unpaid bills, and the lingering smell of wine on my soul. All that was missing was a sad violin soundtrack playing in the background.

But I refused to spiral. I had bigger things to worry about.

Like my mom, still lying unconscious in the hospital bed, refusing to wake up. It'd been six months. Six months of doctors shrugging. Six months of bills piling. Six months of hope slowly draining.

I missed her voice, her cooking, her sarcastic little "Did you burn water again?" jokes every time I attempted to be Gordon Ramsay.

I blew out a breath and pulled on my old hoodie. If depression had a uniform, this was it. I grabbed my backpack and decided to go to my favorite place in the whole city, the orphanage down the block. No matter how bad things got, those kids always gave me a reason to smile.

They didn't care that I'd lost my job or that my mom was sick, or that my life was currently a hot mess casserole. They just wanted hugs, laughter, and someone to listen to their wild little stories.

And right when I was feeling a little better, a glossy magazine at the orphanage's front desk caught my attention. My jaw dropped.

CEO of Lancaster Corp Expands Internationally: Exclusive Interview with Alexander Lancaster.

And there he was Mr. Cold and Billionaire-y. The suit victim. The human statue I accidentally baptized in wine.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I muttered, flipping the magazine open.

The universe really had me in a chokehold.

But maybe... just maybe...

If I could find him... apologize... maybe beg just a little...

I could get my job back.

Even if it meant groveling in front of the man whose thousand-dollar suit I soaked like a discount sponge.