When She Flies E-Book

Lee Winter

• Herausgeber: Ylva Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 576

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

A lesbian office romance about rewriting the past and winning over the legendary ice queen who once inspired you. When free-spirited artist Sienna Fisher is mistaken for an intern at a New York luxury goods empire, the last thing she expects is for the CEO to be aloof English art curator Jasmine Gemayel. Years ago in London, Jasmine shredded Sienna's art and mocked her for knowing nothing of life, setting her on a path to wander the world. Now Sienna has a second chance to impress Jasmine, and she's not about to waste it. Even if it means becoming an intern at age thirty-four and trying to win an in-house design competition, all to dazzle the woman who changed her life…and doesn't even remember her. As if that's not hard enough, there's that strange business of the sparks that keep flying every time she argues art with her boss. Of course, that's entirely one-sided given Jasmine's straight and married…right? Or…is she?

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

About the Book

About Lee Winter

Other Books by Lee Winter

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Chapter 1: The Accidental Intern

Chapter 2: Worms and Strays

Chapter 3: The Kobayashi Maru

Chapter 4: Lost in New York

Chapter 5: The Bet

Chapter 6: A New Obsession

Chapter 7: Deadline Day

Chapter 8: Building History

Chapter 9: Street of Dreams

Chapter 10: Taste of Art

Chapter 11: Found in the Rain

Chapter 12: Torn Past

Chapter 13: Would It Please You?

Chapter 14: Impermanent Things

Chapter 15: Making a Fuss

Chapter 16: Pretty Little Girl

Chapter 17: Not. One. Word.

Chapter 18: The Spying Game

Chapter 19: The Gifts She Gives

Chapter 20: Home Comforts

Chapter 21: Going, Going, Gone

Chapter 22: When She Flies

Chapter 23: That Familiar Feeling

Chapter 24: Seeing You

Epilogue

Other Books from Ylva Publishing

About the Book

A lesbian office romance about rewriting the past and winning over the legendary ice queen who once inspired you.

When free-spirited artist Sienna Fisher is mistaken for an intern at a New York luxury goods empire, the last thing she expects is for the CEO to be aloof English art curator Jasmine Gemayel. Years ago in London, Jasmine shredded Sienna’s art and mocked her for knowing nothing of life, setting her on a path to wander the world.

Now Sienna has a second chance to impress Jasmine, and she’s not about to waste it. Even if it means becoming an intern at age thirty-four and trying to win an in-house design competition, all to dazzle the woman who changed her life…and doesn’t even remember her.

As if that’s not hard enough, there’s that strange business of the sparks that keep flying every time she argues art with her boss. Of course, that’s entirely one-sided given Jasmine’s straight and married…right?

Or…is she?

About Lee Winter

Lee Winter is an award-winning veteran newspaper journalist who has lived in almost every Australian state, covering courts, crime, news, features, and humour writing. Now a full-time author and part-time editor, Lee is also a 2015 and 2016 Lambda Literary Award finalist and has won several Golden Crown Literary Awards. She lives in Western Australia with her longtime girlfriend, where she spends much time ruminating on her garden, backyard critters, and shiny, new gadgets.

CONNECT WITH LEE

Website: www.leewinterauthor.com

Other Books by Lee Winter

Standalone

Vengeance Planning for Amateurs

Hotel Queens

Changing the Script

Breaking Character

Shattered

Requiem for Immortals

Sliced Ice (anthology)

The Truth Collection

The Ultimate Boss Set (box set)

The Brutal Truth

The Awkward Truth

The Villains series

The Fixer

Chaos Agent

Number Six

On The Record series

On the Record – The Complete Collection (box set)

The Red Files

Under Your Skin

When DC Loved Iowa

When She Flies

© 2026 by Lee Winter

Available in paperback and e-book formats.

ISBN (paperback): 978-3-69006-109-4

ISBN (e-book): 978-3-69006-110-0

ISBN (pdf): 978-3-69006-111-7

Published by Ylva Publishing, legal entity of Ylva Verlag, e.Kfr.

Ylva Verlag, e.Kfr.

Owner: Astrid Ohletz

Am Kirschgarten 2

65830 Kriftel

Germany

www.ylva-publishing.com

First edition: 2026

We explicitly reserve the right to use our works for text and data mining as defined in § 44b of the German Copyright Act.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Depending on your device, the text might be displayed differently from the publisher’s approved version.

Credits

Edited by Sarah Ridding and Michelle Aguilar

Cover Design and Print Layout by Ylva Publishing

Image rights cover illustration provided by Shutterstock LLC; iStock; Dreamstime; Canva; AdobeStock; Depositphotos

Graphics provided by Freepik

Acknowledgments

My art expert for this book was Australian author Thea Belmont, who has so much art knowledge in her family. She was a wonderful source on how gallery owners think and operate, and she gave me the inside dirt on some of the art world’s best controversies.

Thanks to Charlie Fisher and her wife, Lisa, who gave me insights into what it’s like being a second-generation Iranian British lesbian living in London. All those descriptions of fierce mothers and fabulous food definitely made it into the book.

To beta readers Kristen Neely, Mary, and Jens Sadowski, thanks, as always, for the valuable feedback. My manuscript always feels a little lost and sad and incomplete until you’ve read it.

Astrid Ohletz, my publisher, managed to squeeze in time to beta read my book. I always love it if this happens because she has a sixth sense for when I’m missing a scene. Legend!

To my editor, Sarah Ridding, who somehow juggled a newborn along with my book, I don’t know how you did it, but I appreciate your work so much. Much gratitude also goes to copy editor Michelle Aguilar, catching all those squirrelly last-gasp mistakes.

Finally, to my readers: You’re astonishing and beautiful and I couldn’t do this without you. Thank you!

Dedication

This one’s for all the lovers of Iranian American actress Shohreh Aghdashloo and her fabulous raspy voice. If ever there was an inspiration for Jasmine…

Chapter 1

The Accidental Intern

Sienna Fisher was a firm believer in fate. So being essentially abducted from the foyer of a fancy New York building one Monday morning did not come as big of a shock to her as it probably should have.

Of course, embracing fate didn’t mean that being kidnapped by a short, husky Asian man in a sensational plum suit had been on her bingo card when she’d awoken in her loft this morning.

It was day sixty-two of being in New York and exploring the city she’d only read about as a girl growing up in England. Sienna’s world travels so far had taught her that every city had something special about it, something she would come to love, no matter how deep she had to dig to uncover it.

And on this brisk morning, ambling about New York, Sienna couldn’t believe her luck. She’d found herself in Noho—lower Manhattan—peering up at a Queen Anne-style building: ten floors of sandstone, terracotta, brick, and copper. It even had a cute little dome tower on top.

As she cupped her face to one grand, arched window, she spied artworks inside dotting the wall of an industrial chic foyer. She gasped. Sienna had to see those up close.

As if responding to the lure of a siren song, she strode inside, straight past a small blonde twentysomething receptionist, who looked up in confusion, and skidded to a halt in front of the wall of art.

Her eyes darted all over the collection of what seemed to be original works. Was that a…cheese-wrapper painting? Random! And, ohhh. A Hom Nguyen?She’d only seen the Frenchman’s talented scribbles in art magazines.

A clearing throat was followed by a “Miss, can I help you?”

No, not now! Not yet! Sienna needed to absorb the art before she was kicked out! She let the receptionist’s voice fade away, hoping to squeeze in a little more time with the canvases calling to her.

It was so captivating! The colors: reds, oranges, greens, and blacks, just scribbles, some people might think, people who didn’t understand the work. Sienna breathed in deeply.

She heard murmuring. One-sided. The receptionist was probably on the phone. Calling Security? She could hardly blame her. After all, Sienna was just some random blow-in dirtying up their fancy foyer; a stranger with no need to be in here at all. Except she did need to be here. Fate wasn’t wrong to pull her to this place.

Sienna inhaled. Maybe she should throw herself on the receptionist’s mercy and argue that as an artist she needed to breathe in new experiences like air. Except, stopping to argue her case would waste valuable seconds that could be spent admiring this revelatory wall of art.

She wondered who had chosen this eclectic selection. Someone bold and creative with an eye for the interesting. No, this definitely wasn’t a regular interior designer’s pick. It was from the mind of a passionate art lover.

A ding sounded from the lift behind her, and Sienna sagged, knowing her artgasm was at an end. She heard the doors slide quietly open and turned.

To her surprise, springing from the lift was an immaculately dressed Asian man with designer glasses, who didn’t have a lick of Security aura about him. He took her left bicep in a surprisingly firm grip.

“You are SO late,” he said with a harried huff as he propelled Sienna back into the lift.

“I’m…what?” she asked, turning to face the rapidly closing doors.

“Late. You must pay attention. That’s rule number one of what’s expected of you.” He slid his gaze over her, cataloging every inch of her. He pursed his lips with all the withering disapproval of a drag queen.

She wondered why she felt defensive and looked down at herself. Her ripped jeans, white T-shirt, tan duster coat, and hand-painted graphic trainers were perfectly acceptable New York wear. Hell, she’d seen some diabolical fashion sights in the two months since she’d been here that made her look practically overdressed.

“Well. You’re not what I expected,” the man said while punching the button for the ninth floor without even looking at it.

Sienna idly wondered how many times blindly pushing the lift button had gone awry for him.

Wait, she wasn’t what he expected? “Excuse me?” she said, glaring at him. “Judgy much?” He could talk. He was practically a kidnapper! “And you’ve made a mistake.”

The doors closed before she could make her exit. Shit! Still, she was rather curious as to what the universe was up to.

“Oh, honey, I’m not responsible for this.” He peered at her. “Mr. Latouf is.” He said the name with a sniff, as though she ought to know who that was. “And your fancy parents.”

My…what? Her mum, Susannah, at home in Cricklewood, London, was the least fancy person on the planet. She ate digestive biscuits with her Tetley tea, for heaven’s sake. And her meat-and-potatoes father had been a moderately successful landscape painter until his death ten years ago. The absence of a spike in prices for his works after he’d died was proof he wasn’t as special as he’d believed himself.

They lived in a modest red-brick house with so many odd angles that even the real estate agent could only describe it as rare in its lack of conventionality.

The lift lurched skywards at an expensively rapid pace. Now that she thought of it, everything about this building was expensive, from the unexpected foyer art to the amber resin wall glowing in the lift’s rear. It warmed the car like a backlit shroud of Turin (minus the Jesus outline).

The man glared at the flashing numbers of floors whizzing by. “Hustle, hustle!” he informed the lift, which was already flying as fast as any Sienna had ever seen.

“Oh, and I’m not judgy,” he said in the judgiest of tones, as if just realizing what she’d said. “I simply didn’t think you’d be so…” He swished a hand up and down her, then shook his head. “Old.”

Old? She was thirty-four, for heaven’s sake. Hardly middle-aged. And Judgy Guy seemed to be around her age, so she didn’t have a clue why he was giving her any grief.

Sienna ignored his dig and folded her arms. “Okay, and you are?”

“Oliver Ang, of course.” At her visible incomprehension, his tone turned patronizing. “The head assistant you were in the foyer waiting for? You did read my last text?” His voice dropped to a low mutter. “Lovely. Nepo babies. Always needing to be spoon-fed.”

Nepo baby? He thought she was a new employee who was a nepotism hire? A kid from some powerful family empire or something?

Before she could protest that he was wrong on so many levels, up to and including his ability to identify an actual employee, the man turned to face her, one hand dropping to his hip.

“Look,” he began, “the meeting’s probably already started. But maybe we can just slip in the back and She won’t notice.” A hint of fear darted into his eyes.

Oliver really did seem to uppercase the S in she.

“She?” Sienna prodded, fascinated by his verbal genuflecting.

“The Queen,” he said and, yep, he’d verbally uppercased the Q in Queen as well. Oliver supplied another sniff.

“Do you have a cold?” Sienna asked helpfully.

He rolled his eyes. “Did you even read the Latouf Luxury Emporium organizational chart I sent you? She won’t take kindly to you being unprepared. She has high expectations, even if you don’t.” He glowered at the lift lights again for not yet having reached the ninth floor.

Sienna probably should have corrected Oliver right then. Told him she’d just happened upon this gorgeous old building by chance on one of her wanderings. She should have told him this and gone on her way. But fate had brought her here for a reason, and now she was incredibly interested in meeting Oliver’s “queen.” How could she leave before that? Curiosity would burn in her forever if she did.

The doors opened, and Oliver reached for her arm again with those pincer fingers.

She dodged him.

He merely huffed at her and took off, announcing, “This way. Hurry!”

Oliver set a breakneck pace, and Sienna was glad she was wearing her trainers. Not just any trainers. These were her hand-painted Converse Chuck Taylors she’d labored over for hours, getting the exact shades of blues and blacks for her detailed abstract design. Up close, the abstract triangles gave way to a dog’s face that she’d sneaked into the pattern to amuse herself.

She occasionally received offers for them when she was out and about, but they weren’t for sale.

Her shoes were perfectly matched in hue to her long-sleeved white T-shirt that flattered her trim, five-foot-eight frame and distressed navy jeans. She’d encouraged the knee rips herself, not to be trendy but because she loved the stark white threads peeking from the tears, contrasting against the denim’s deep dark blue. Contrast was powerful in art.

The jeans probably looked top-end designer…which might explain Oliver’s nepotism comment, but they’d only cost her forty bucks and an hour with her scissors.

They rounded a corner and came up to a glass-walled conference room, filled with about two dozen people. All were immaculately dressed, with perfect hair, sharp suits, and shiny shoes. The assembled group oozed quality and wealth.

Then Sienna saw Her. And, yes, Sienna absolutely put the emphasis on the H. She stumbled to a halt just behind Oliver and peered over his shoulder.

Wow. Holy… It was Jasmine Gemayel. Art legend. Curator. Icon. And Sienna’s whole, sole inspiration when she’d been a young artist back in London. Her reason for loving art now. For being an artist. And for traveling the world.

Jasmine wore a midnight-violet suit dark enough to be almost black. The lapel was ebony, and it shone in a way that said silk and luxury and dry-clean only.

Beneath the jacket was a popped-collar, crisp white shirt with three buttons undone to her light-brown, flawless neck. Long and graceful, it flowed up to a strong jaw. That hadn’t changed either. Jasmine looked as stubborn as ever.

Sienna’s eyes drifted higher to rosewood red lips, angular cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, and that luxurious, sweeping dark-brown hair. Ever so slightly ruffled, her shoulder-blade-length hair looked as if she’d been absently running it through her hands. Her earrings were fancy—dancing strings of glass in assorted colors, Egyptian style.

Her mystique and charisma were just as intoxicating as they had been when Jasmine had launched a cutting-edge London experimental art gallery two decades ago.

It had been a fifteen-minute Underground ride from Sienna’s family home to Jasmine’s West End gallery, and Sienna hadn’t been able to stay away. She’d soaked it all up, the incredible art, the colors and textures of experimental artists from all over the world. The highlight was the monthly evening talks Jasmine would give to artists and patrons, while Sienna had lurked in the shadows at the back.

Jasmine had never seen her, and—until a teenaged Sienna had finally plucked up the courage to show Jasmine her art portfolio—she’d never spoken to her either.

She’d been so clueless back then. And…God. What an interaction. Her cheeks heated as they always did at the reminder of Jasmine’s clipped, faintly accented critique of her work. “Derivative. Unoriginal. Lacking character. Live before you create. My God, have you even left home? Seen anything of the world?”

Sienna had been crushed. Shredded. Shattered. Of course, that rebuke had probably just been Tuesday to Jasmine.

Would she recognize Sienna now as the teenager she’d torn apart with professional detachment? After one meeting so long ago? Unlikely. She had been of no consequence to the icon. The thought was a relief. Sienna was not about to remind her of her younger self’s humiliation. And she sure as hell wasn’t about to waste another opportunity to be in Jasmine Gemayel’s orbit. No wonder fate had brought her here: a second chance.

The art curator had to be just over forty-five now. Age had in no way made her less stunning. Her stillness in the way she held her head, and her graceful movements, were as captivating as they always had been.

She was also doing that thing with her hand she’d done years ago—a flick when she was done with something. It was dismissive and coolly applied to people too. No one wanted Jasmine’s disapproval. Her biting tongue when displeased was scathing. Worse was when she said nothing at all and simply walked away. When someone was beneath her notice, they did not die wondering.

Exhaling in wonder, Sienna could not help but stare. The woman was magnificent.

Oliver shifted back a step and whispered with a tiny curl at the edges of his lips. “You see? She is the queen.” His eyes glowed with adoration.

Jasmine’s eyes, hickory brown, and edged with black kohl, now swung in their direction.

Sienna’s breath hitched, fear and anticipation shooting through her. Her hands turned clammy and her mouth dried.

But there was not even the faintest recognition in the cold, even stare that intersected Sienna. “Ah, the intern has deigned to arrive,” Jasmine said, her voice a trademark low, throaty rumble. “Please look into time management in future.”

She might have said please, but the sentence was laced with admonishment.

Wait, what? She thought Sienna was an intern? No wonder Oliver thought she looked too old! She couldn’t seriously pass as an intern at her age, could she?

Under Jasmine’s brief, derisive glance, Sienna withered a little, even though this was in no way her fault. She wasn’t their intern! Yet she’d somehow already disappointed the woman.

“Everyone”—Jasmine glanced at the room—“take note of who will be dealing with your photocopies, deliveries, and coffee orders for the next six months.” She did the little hand flick in Sienna’s direction, not even looking at her.

All eyes swung to Sienna, but she was too busy digesting Jasmine’s words.

Six months?

Even if they really were offering this to her, she couldn’t intern for six months! Although it would mean working with her art hero. Sienna’s heart raced. She’d dug one hell of a hole for herself.

The room was waiting. Was she expected to introduce herself? Surely they’d realize she was not their intern the moment she said her name? Maybe they didn’t know her name? What to do?

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Sienna Fisher. Artist and wanderer.” She smiled. “I’m looking forward to working with you all.” She shocked herself with that last line.

Beside her, Oliver stiffened and tossed her a dismayed look. He glanced down at his phone, fingers moving frantically, as if he was looking up the intern’s details. Then he glared.

She gave him a shrug and a half grin.

Jasmine was now peering coolly at Oliver, asking a wordless question of her own.

His mouth opened, then shut again, and he flicked a confused look at Sienna, his cheeks darkening.

Jasmine’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly at that. But then, as if deciding intern matters were beneath her, she flicked her fingers again, this time to a man next to her. “Antonio?”

Antonio looked as Italian as his name, and was dressed elegantly in a tailored suit, with a red tie the color of undried blood. In his early fifties, he exuded an air of a well-bred man of taste, with an aura that was somehow both luxurious yet strongly masculine. How interesting.

His expression was as neutral as his tone. “Three of the department heads have submitted their concepts for this year’s tiers,” Antonio said. “Some need work. We’ll be making feedback shortly.”

Jasmine nodded. “To reiterate, we need to be creative, people. Original. Do not recycle rejected ideas from previous seasons in whole or in part.” Her gaze swung to a bunch of six young men in their twenties and early thirties sitting in virtually cloned navy suits at one end of the table. “Do not think I won’t notice, gentlemen.”

They squirmed under her scrutiny.

“Antonio and I will be getting back to you all soon with our feedback.”

Antonio, who made an Easter Island statue look animated, inclined his head in agreement, no flicker of emotion betraying him.

“Our Tier One product will be announced shortly,” Jasmine went on. “As always, I trust that all departments will submit ideas for it, in addition to their own tier’s work. The chosen team’s design will be awarded a larger-than-usual bonus this year, because the task is more exacting. So it quite literally pays to put some passion into your proposals. Understood?”

The heads all bobbed.

“That’s everything.” Her elegant wrist flipped backward to punctuate her words, then she pivoted and stalked out of the room.

When Antonio began to speak, something about a deadline extension for the Tier One Thousand department, Oliver latched onto Sienna’s wrist and hauled her outside the conference room.

“Hey!” she protested. “Do you always drag people around?”

“Who are you? You are not Amy the intern!”

“No,” Sienna agreed. “Not me.”

“Why didn’t you say that in the lobby?” He all but stomped his foot.

“Why didn’t you ask? Not even once did you ask my name! Why did you assume I was this Amy person?”

He blinked and then pointed at her shoes. “Those, my dear, are designer sneakers. Handmade, cost a pretty penny. Since Amy’s from one of the richest families in New York and you were standing exactly where and when she was meant to be, why wouldn’t I assume you were her? Oh, and I got a call from the receptionist to say a young woman had arrived and ‘wasn’t I expecting some intern’?” He shook his head. “A better question is why you let a complete stranger drag you off into a business meeting without so much a whimper of protest?”

“Fate does what it will. If here’s where I’m meant to be, then who am I to argue?”

Oliver looked at her agape for half a minute and then said, “Well, why did you say you looked forward to working with these people when you don’t intend to work here? Or even know where you are? Or what we do here?”

“Who says I don’t intend to work here?” Sienna countered with a grin.

“Why do you assume we would take some random stranger off the street as an intern? You haven’t been vetted by HR.” He looked close to hyperventilating now. “You don’t know anything about anything!”

His phone beeped, and he snatched it out of his pocket, still glaring at her. Then his dark-brown eyes narrowed. “Amy the intern sends her apologies but won’t be joining Latouf Luxury Emporium. Apparently she’s had a better offer.” He scowled and dropped his phone back into his jacket pocket.

“Oh dear,” Sienna said.

“Nepo babies,” he complained again. “Don’t appreciate what they have. The opportunity to work with one of the greatest women in human history and the ungrateful creature has thrown it all away for some other internship because it’s paid.” He sounded disgusted.

“Greatest woman” was a bit of a stretch, but Sienna understood the sentiment. She paused. “This is an unpaid internship?” Why would Jasmine do that? It seemed unnecessary and unscrupulous, given how luxurious the building was. They didn’t look short of money. She didn’t exactly blame this Amy for wanting to be paid for six months’ work.

“Yes.” He smirked now, as if certain she’d backtrack on her interest in working here.

What he didn’t know was that Sienna didn’t have to worry about money right now. Between her savings and her mother keeping her bank account turning over from Sienna’s art sales—and waitressing jobs topping up any shortfalls—she was self-sustaining. It allowed her to keep wandering the world, creating art. She’d planned to be in New York for six months anyway, but did she really want to spend her time here as an intern?

An intern for Jasmine Gemayel?

No question. Hell, yes.

Oliver was still eyeballing her in agitation. She needed to convince him first.

“I don’t care about the internship being unpaid,” she said. “I mean, my tourist visa doesn’t allow me to do paid work while I’m here anyway. And as for why you’d want me?” She offered him her most charming smile. “I know one thing that Amy doesn’t: The woman running that meeting was Jasmine Gemayel.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“I know her as the legend who created GOMEA,” Sienna said. “I totally agree she’s a queen. I know how good she is. Would your Amy know that?”

Oliver stared at her in bewilderment. “GOMEA,” he repeated.

“London’s Gallery of Modern and Experimental Art.”

“I know what it is. But how do you? Jasmine’s not a household name. And she hasn’t run that gallery in ten years! Not since she came to New York.”

“I’m an artist. I also dabble in graphic design.” Sienna waved at her hand-decorated trainers. “I’m originally from London. Jasmine’s name is one anyone in art circles would know there.”

“So those really are designer,” he said, looking thoughtful. “Only you’re the designer?”

She nodded.

“Interesting. You know, kitten, I was going to throw you out on your ear. I thought you were some charming grifter who doesn’t know how lucky she is to even be here. So close to…” He exhaled.

“A legend,” she finished for him. “I know. And you know. We see it. Not everyone does, but we do, right? It’s about respecting someone who’s earned it.”

He studied her for a moment. “I am sorely tempted.” He thought for a few seconds more. “Well, Miles is so boring, so that tips you over the edge.”

“Um, who is Miles, and what does he have to do with me?”

“Miles Rutherford is ten thousand years old, wears cravats for God’s sake, and runs Collections.” He gave an airy wave. “And until you fell over our chic doormat, that queer dear was the only other gay in the village.” His look was knowing. “It might be nice to have more ‘family’ around here who isn’t from the last century.”

Few people picked out Sienna as a lesbian. The long curly hair usually threw them. She stared in surprise.

“I have excellent gaydar.” He tapped his nose. “Besides, only artsy, queer men and starstruck sapphics look at Jasmine the way you did just now.” He snickered softly. “It’s a bit of a giveaway when your jaw thuds to the floor.”

“Smart aleck,” Sienna shot back, not denying it. She lifted her chin. “Don’t straight men look at her that way too?”

“Alas, no. They see a successful, powerful, elegant woman who drills a look right through them, and all their interest just shrivels up. Queer men recognize and respect her divine queenliness. Queer women in general adore her power and hotness and that fabulous hair. And some”—he eyed her pointedly—“just turn into a little lezzie puddle of awestruck goop.”

“I was that obvious?” Sienna muttered in dismay.

“Only to me, kitten. I get it.” He exhaled. “All right, we’ll do this. I’ll handle HR. If anyone asks, Amy bailed and you were second on the intern list. But they won’t ask. All anyone wants is for interns to do their bidding and not bitch too much.”

“Won’t Jasmine ask, though? I could tell she was not expecting my name. She’ll want to know, right?”

“God no. She has zero interest in the interns, disagrees with the very concept of them, and makes that abundantly clear every chance she gets. We all know not to even mention the intern scheme to her. On that note, don’t be offended if she ignores you entirely for six months. It’s not personal.”

“What? Why would she do that?” No!

“The interns are the sole domain of her husband, Mark Latouf. He picks them out carefully based on their family connections. Jasmine leaves well alone. But don’t fret, he won’t know you’re not Amy and throw you out. He has his own business that he runs elsewhere. He’s barely ever here.”

Jasmine had a husband? Curiosity rippled through her. How surprising. She’d never thought of her as the marrying kind. She was just so fiercely independent. Was he some famous, brilliant artist perhaps? Someone powerful, probably. Doubtlessly good-looking. Of course he would be, given how beautiful she was. She could have anyone.

Oliver stopped. “What was your name again? I have to look like I know you before we get to HR.”

“Sienna Fisher.”

“Right.” His eyes brightened. “You’re not an heiress by any chance, are you? That’d help your case. I’m being serious.”

“Afraid not.”

“Damn. Okay.” He straightened his outlandish purple glasses. “Let’s get you an internship.”

They walked on in silence for a few moments.

“You know you’re actually qualified,” Oliver told her. “In case you’re having doubts.”

“Even though I don’t know what you do around here?”

“Art, Sienna. We do art. Well, designer goods. We create concepts, give the designs to established high-end firms and pay them to create a special limited edition run for us. Sometimes manufacturers will approach us and beg us to partner with them because they want to be linked to our excellent name. But at the end of the day, we create luxurious goods with massively overpriced tags, and sold only to the richest of the rich who want bragging rights.”

“I’ve never seen your label anywhere. Do you sell your products in stores, or…”

“No. We’re far too exclusive for that. For Tier One, that’s our one-off biggest item, there’ll be an end-of-year auction. For the rest, it’s a subscription-only service, and there’s a wait-list to even be included in that. I’ll explain more later. Right now, we’re here.” He waved at a door with Human Resources written on it. But Sienna was more transfixed by what was next to it.

On an adjacent wall was a portrait of a man who looked like he should be on the cover of a steamy romance novel with the title Taming the Dark-Eyed Billionaire.

Sienna took in the sharp suit, expensive watch, and manicured hand holding a glass of spirits. He could be a model, but why would they have his framed photo on the wall? She already guessed the answer but asked anyway. “Who is that?”

“Mark Latouf, company founder. You’ll see his portrait all over the building.”

“The husband?”

“The husband.” Oliver raised his hand to knock.

“Jasmine must really enjoy looking at him if she’s put his portrait up everywhere.”

Oliver’s teeth flashed. “He is good to look at,” he purred as he knocked. “And she didn’t put his portraits up; he did.”

A voice on the other side of the HR door said, “Come in.”

He led them inside. An older white woman with a generous build was enhanced by an elegant navy suit. Everyone here was so well-dressed.

“Mrs. Burgess,” Oliver said, “I’d like you to help us get our newest intern settled and official.”

“Ah,” she said, glancing up briefly, then flipped through a manila folder. “You must be Amy Vanderbilt.”

Sienna started at Amy’s famous surname. Oliver wasn’t kidding about their interns being sourced from well-connected families.

The HR woman looked up again, a typed piece of paper clutched in her fingers, and frowned. “You do not look twenty-two.”

“No,” she said. “I’m Sienna Fisher. Thirty-four.”

“Amy bailed on us,” Oliver cut in. “I’ll explain later. Sienna’s our number two pick. Please process her for us.”

The HR woman held up a stilling hand. “Oliver Ang,” she said, her tone light censure, “we both know Ms. Fisher is not number two. I keep a copy of the interns list.”

His expression turned sheepish. “Well, Sienna’s here now. Ready and willing. That puts her one up on…” He paused, as if thinking of a name. “Whoever our number two was. And Sienna here has a design and art background.” He glanced at her. “Right?”

“Yes.” Sort of. She wondered if learning at her artist father’s knee counted as self-taught or expert taught.

“There, see?” Oliver tilted his head at Mrs. Burgess. “Think of how exciting it’ll be to have an intern who’s not telling us ‘Don’t you know who my parents are?’ every three seconds?”

“I admit, that would make a change,” Mrs. Burgess murmured with an amused twinkle in her eye. “All right, Oliver. As long as Ms. Latouf approves of Sienna, I’ll go ahead and process her.”

Ms. Latouf? Jasmine had taken her husband’s surname? Really? The woman she’d listened to in the Art After Dark talks in London had proudly mentioned her parents’ Iranian roots and their family tree that could be traced back centuries. This was not someone who’d give up the family name easily. How…puzzling. It seemed like there was a lot she didn’t know about Jasmine.

“Good,” Oliver was saying. “I’ll leave Sienna with you and then pick her up for the grand tour after you’re done. And that’s when the real fun begins.”

~ ~ ~

“You survived,” Oliver said with a warm smile as Sienna tucked her HR-issued security badge into her coat pocket.

“I did. You might have warned me beforehand how much she likes talking about her pet ferret.”

“Why do you think I didn’t stick around? Let me give you a quick tour, but later, we’re going to have lunch and you will spill on what She was like in the before times. In London.”

“It’d be my pleasure,” Sienna said honestly. “Although Jasmine and I never formally met.” Aside from the art-critiquing incident, which she was in no hurry to share. “But I did see her running her gallery a lot.”

“Good. You like sushi?” he asked. “We’re having sushi.”

“My agreement sounds nonoptional,” Sienna said in amusement.

“Sushi is life.” He waved to the large office area they’d just turned into. “This is called the main floor. It’s really just Jasmine’s floor plus a few support staff who buzz around her like earnest bees.”

It was a lavishly appointed space with every modern convenience, from state-of-the art photocopiers and computers to exotic tinted glass light shades in a ripple of colors. The walls, though, were what caught Sienna’s eye: The wallpaper was a pale cornflower blue with incongruous yellow vertical lines.

Sienna stopped to study it, running her fingers up and down the faintly raised lines. “Unusual,” she murmured. “You don’t see many offices with wallpaper these days.” She traced a slim sliver of gold. “And why this look? It doesn’t seem Jasmine’s taste. I mean, it’s the sort of wallpaper you’d slap up in a room filled with Louis XIV antiques.”

“You have quite the eye,” Oliver said, pausing. “The wallpaper was chosen by Bradley, who is Mark Latouf’s head designer. Back in the day, when Mr. Latouf was setting up the company for his then new wife to take over, this is what was chosen.”

Sienna didn’t care for either Bradley or Mark Latouf’s taste, but she didn’t say it.

She glanced higher to an array of framed artworks. “He did better here.” She pointed. “I love this collection. Bialke, right? Maybe Bradley the designer has some taste after all.”

“Hardly. That series was chosen by Jasmine her first day on the job,” Oliver said.

“Ah.” Of course it was. In matters of taste, Jasmine was second to none.

“Come on,” Oliver said, drawing her away. “Let’s get you set up. And then you can start the low-octane world of being a Latouf Luxury Emporium intern.”

Chapter 2

Worms and Strays

Jasmine leaned back in her office’s dark-purple, velvet chair and waited for the salesman/supplier from East Moroccan Fine Linens to stop monologuing about his importance. Occasionally, while droning on, he’d glance around at the pop-culture posters framed on her wall, or the curios in display cabinets, and his lip would curl down slightly. Or he’d glance over at Antonio, seated silently in one corner, as if expecting him to take over the meeting.

Antonio was having none of it, of course, saying nothing and refusing to indulge the irritating Samir Jabri.

Jasmine was too practiced, too experienced to react to his subtle insults or disdain. She’d worked out the moment he’d started speaking exactly how this would end.

Jabri was so far out of his depth, it was embarrassing. She caught the look of amusement in Antonio’s eye, as if he was anticipating what was about to follow.

This supplier claimed he’d just flown in from Rabat, Morocco, as a “courtesy” to her company. In fact, she knew he’d instead been relocated from his company’s Moroccan headquarters months ago to a tiny New York sub branch.

Her issue wasn’t that he had lied to big-note himself. Her issue was he had assumed she would not have extensively researched his company and him before this meeting. And her main issue was he thought she was a nobody, a woman far beneath him.

“It is an insult,” Jabri said with what seemed like faux outrage, “how small your order is. Perhaps if you quadrupled the order size, I can make our company available to do business.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Jasmine said. “We were very clear at the outset when talking to your head office about what our needs are. We sell an exclusive limited edition product…in this case, it will be a collection of quality throw cushions. We never mass-produce. We certainly don’t intend to sell four times what we already outlined with your CEO just to meet the minimum that you state we should buy in order to do business with you.”

“For such a small amount,” he tried again, “I don’t see that it is worth it for us.”

“Your company is trying very hard to break into the US market, Mr. Jabri, yes? It’s why they’ve set up a New York office and sent you here. Correct?”

He shifted in his chair now, clearly not liking how much she knew.

“Yes, but we will not go very far agreeing to such tiny orders.”

“The order may be limited, but it means your product will be showcased by the most high-class luxury emporium in the world.”

He slapped his armrest. “Except no one has ever heard of you! I could stop a thousand people on the street and say, ‘You there! Do you know of Latouf Luxury Emporium?’ and they would all say no!”

She arched an eyebrow. “Because we are not retailing to them. We sell only to the world’s top point-five percent of wealthy individuals.” How did he not know this? “Individuals who often appear in luxury lifestyle and architecture magazines, showing off their homes and, more often than not, products they have bought from us. What is a tiny thing to you, is a very large thing to your company’s reputation, especially in the US, where no one knows you.”

A wary look crossed his tanned face. “I already have told you what line of fabrics I may be willing to sell, but you refuse. You hold out for our best. And you want it exclusively! Not acceptable.”

“But the line you’re willing to sell is too commonplace to interest our clientele.”

“I doubt your clientele would know the difference,” he shot back. “Americans and culture? Please. These people would not know culture if it bit them on their fat backsides.”

Jasmine’s lips thinned. A great deal of America’s elite, in fact, knew more about culture than this…imbecile. They were collectors of quality. Rightly, they wanted to get what they paid for. And they knew every inch of what they were buying.

“It is irrelevant what a client’s knowledge is. Because I assure you, Latouf Luxury Emporium does not substitute cheaper materials for any reason.”

“We are going in circles. Good luck finding any luxury fabric supplier prepared to sell in such insignificant amounts. Why would they bother?”

She rose. “Clearly this negotiation is over. It’s a shame the requested line is not available to us despite initially being told it would be,” she said. “I appreciate your time.”

Like hell she did. Businessmen like him were just so predictable: Arrogant misogynists who were so sure they could bully a woman into compliance. He truly thought he could steamroll her into taking a lesser quality product for the same price? No doubt he wanted to dazzle his CEO with his business savvy. Except he would never have tried such an insulting or risky stunt with a male manager.

Jabri looked startled by the abrupt meeting end. He shot Antonio an astonished look that seemed to say, “You’re letting her throw me out?”

Antonio gazed at him and also rose. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Jabri,” he said, lifting an arm to shepherd the man out.

“But…” Jabri blinked, “I thought…” He automatically stood. “We haven’t come to an agreement.”

“I’ll let your headquarters know the reason we’re not moving forward,” Jasmine said, tone curt. “Good day.”

He looked down his patrician nose at her as she led him to the lift, Antonio trailing them.

Jabri rallied. “My CEO will the same as me,” he announced. But the fear in his eyes betrayed him.

Jasmine already knew full well their answer. The Moroccan CEO had been so enthusiastic at her interest, he’d all but fallen over himself to arrange this meeting to finalize things.

“No doubt I will be hearing from you later,” she said with utmost confidence as she stabbed the lift button for Jabri and the doors opened.

He straightened his shoulders, stepped inside, and turned. “No, no. Our business is concluded.” He wagged a finger at her, trying to reclaim his bruised ego. “Your needs are not worth our while. Good day, Mr. Favero.” After a pointed pause, he added, “And Mrs. Latouf.”

She merely smiled evenly at his disrespect, which seemed to unsettle him even more.

The lift doors closed.

Antonio glanced at her. “Will we be seeing him again when his company realizes what he’s torpedoed? A chance at the American market’s most elite luxury sector? How often does a minnow like East Moroccan Fine Linens get promoted straight to the big leagues?”

“He doesn’t see us as the big leagues. He hasn’t done his research. If his CEO doesn’t fire him on the spot for incompetence, he’ll be back, begging us to take his fabric, no matter how limited the quantity.”

“So we’ll see him groveling shortly.”

“He can try.” She headed back to her office, Antonio at her side. “I’m just deciding how much I’ll take from his margin for inconveniencing me. Maybe I’ll insist he sells us some gold skalli samm at cost.” The thread did look so delightful woven into cushions. “You know Indira’s been dying for us to acquire some.”

Antonio’s eyes were amused. “You love this, don’t you? Putting the fools in their place.”

“Not the fools,” Jasmine said, settling back into her purple chair. She did not hide her scorn. “I can’t be bothered with the ignorant. The disrespectful.” She waved at him to sit, and he did so. “You saw the way he talked down to me. He doesn’t see a CEO. To him I’m just a woman who has no value and cannot have any real authority. As such, he thinks I’m just for show and you were the power in the room. He kept waiting for you to make the decision.”

“I noticed that,” Antonio said. “I’m surprised you’d still be willing to do business with him when he crawls back.”

Jasmine warmed at the thought of what lay ahead. “Oh it won’t go the way he expects. I’ll insist on all my concessions. He’ll agree probably, while limp with relief that a deal’s still possible. A contract will be drawn up. But then I’ll refuse to sign until his name is off it and he’s not involved in our account—now or ever again.”

Antonio chuckled. “I’d love to be there to see that.”

“That is why I like you. You understand.” She closed her eyes. “Winning is nothing without crushing the ones who deserve it. He’s an ill-bred worm.”

“Very evocative image.”

“What do you know of the new intern?” Jasmine suddenly asked, eyes springing back open. She flicked her hand in the direction of the outer office, and rotated her chair a little to properly face him.

“What?” Surprise was all over his face.

“That woman was not Amy Vanderbilt. Unless Amy Vanderbilt is really an eccentric artist who got lost from London.”

Antonio smiled at that. “I don’t know who she is, but I did notice that—unlike every other intern we’ve ever had—she didn’t check her phone once during the meeting. Her outfit caught my eye, though. Did you see her shoes? Unique. I don’t recognize the designer.”

“I did not.” She doubted somehow they’d be Balenciaga. The interloper wasn’t intern young. Mid-thirties probably. She was…appealing to look at, Jasmine supposed, with the doe eyes and sweet oval face.

Her long wavy hair that gave her a windswept look, as if she were a backpacker just blown in from some regional airport. “Oliver panicked when she said her name,” Jasmine continued. “He didn’t know she wasn’t Amy until then. Do you know any famous Fisher families that Mark would want to ingratiate himself with?”

“Only the tinning tycoon? From Texas?”

“Did that girl sound Texan to you?”

“No. But we both know plenty of heiresses get their educations abroad.”

“True.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “She doesn’t fit the usual stereotype Mark sends us. The trust-fund types we get are all bored and have a careless air about them. Fisher seemed excited to be here. So, who is she?”

“Why not ask Mark?”

Jasmine suppressed a shudder. “No, thank you. My ex-husband is too annoying to tolerate before my first tea,” she said. “Or my second. Or third.”

His lips came perilously close to a smile. “When you talk about him like that, I have no idea why everyone hasn’t worked out you’re divorced.”

“You know Mark won’t tolerate everyone knowing that dirty little secret. It doesn’t fit his image. He has important clients to impress with his aura of perfection.” She waved her hand. “Back to the intern. Who on earth is she?”

“I have a bold idea,” Antonio said. “Why not ask her who her rich and powerful parents are?”

“Don’t be absurd. You know I have no direct interactions with the interns. I won’t set a precedent now. I was more curious than interested. I don’t like unresolved issues.”

“For someone with no interest, you’re asking a lot of questions.”

She shot him a warning glare. “Don’t.”

He held his hands up in surrender.

“I repeat: I do not care. The parade of uninterested empty heads we get is exhausting. The interns don’t know design. They don’t know art. They don’t know creativity or originality. They don’t know hard work. All they care about is social media and their bank balances. And they quit the second they don’t like doing a moment’s hard work. Or until they spend a day in the Smart Machines department. Whichever comes first.”

God, they were annoying. Once again, she regretted her decision not to fight Mark in creating an internship scheme.

“Jasmine?” Antonio broke into her thoughts.

She looked up.

“The new girl’s right there.” He pointed through the glass wall, angling his body to not be obvious.

And so she was. Sienna was standing beside Oliver, their backs to Jasmine’s office, as Oliver pointed out various features around the main floor.

“So just ask her who she is,” he suggested.

“No.” Why was this so hard for him to grasp? She never bothered with the interns. To do so would mean she thought them worthy of stepping into her emporium, and they were far from it. However, that didn’t mean she couldn’t solve her minor mystery another way. She cleared her throat and called out, “Oliver? A moment.”

She was rather pleased at seeing his swallow of alarm as he pivoted toward her. Good. He should be nervous if he’d just allowed an unknown element to slither into her office. Although to be fair, Sienna Fisher was rather graceful for a slitherer.

Jasmine glanced at Antonio. “That will be all.”

Her head of Fashion rose and exited in a swish of perfect Italian pinstriping.

~ ~ ~

The moment Oliver scurried in, Jasmine leaned back in her chair and gave him a steely look. “That woman you’re showing around is not Amy Vanderbilt.”

“No.” He swallowed and tried a joke. “I noticed that too.”

Her look was hard. “Care to explain?”

“Amy Vanderbilt decided to take another offer at the last minute. She texted me that she had a…better position come up,” he added, looking uncomfortable.

“A paid one, you mean,” Jasmine filled in for him.

“I suspect so, yes.”

“And who is that little stray you picked up instead?” Jasmine arched an eyebrow.

They both glanced outside her glass office at Sienna Fisher, who was studying the Madeleine Bialke collection. She seemed engrossed, which was unexpected. Usually no one noticed the art Jasmine had so carefully selected for her building, except perhaps Miles. But he was head of Collections; he was paid to notice art.

“She was our second choice.”

Jasmine eyed him, her skepticism rising. “I see. Which famous Fisher family is she from, then?” she asked, turning her voice soft and dangerous. That usually yielded results.

“Uhm…” Oliver shifted from one foot to the other. “Doesn’t Texas have some multimillionaire tinning family?”

Answering a question with a question? What was he hiding? Another glance back at the woman revealed she was now peering so closely at a Bialke that her nose was almost touching it.

“Enough, Oliver,” she said, tone warning. “That young woman’s not some heiress, and she’s certainly not from Texas. Tell me right now who she is.”

“I don’t know,” he finally confessed, wringing his hands. “I truly thought she was Amy.”

“Did she tell you that?” Jasmine demanded. “Misrepresent herself?”

“God, no!” he said in alarm. “No! Reception said there was a young woman in the foyer and asked if I was waiting for an intern. And it was right when Amy was supposed to be here, and so I…assumed.”

“What was she doing in our foyer in the first place?”

He screwed up his face as if trying to remember. “I think she was admiring the Hom Nguyen.”

Interesting choice, given all the other art she had on display downstairs. “Which one?” she couldn’t resist asking, her professional curiosity piqued.

“Um…Young Man?”

“Youman,” she corrected. Many a morning she’d take a break with a thyme tea and sit on the sofa and admire the foyer art. In some ways it was like having her old gallery again. However, perhaps it was not alike in enough ways or she wouldn’t feel so cut off from her art now.

She shook herself and focused. “How did this Not-Amy wind up in a lift with you heading up for our start-of-year staff meeting?”

He looked down. “Well, as I said, I assumed it was Amy, so I grabbed her and…” his voice rose to a higher pitch, “dragged her in?”

Jasmine’s eyes tightened. “You abducted her? Bodily hauled her in here? Will we need to call our lawyers now?”

“No…it wasn’t a kidnapping. She kind of…went along with it?”

She stared at him, baffled. “Why?”

“She said she believes in fate. That fate brought her here and that everything happens for a reason.”

Jasmine sighed. “For God’s sake, that’s absurd! Show her the door.”

“But…” Oliver’s tone turned pleading, “we need an intern.”

“Our staff do know how to make copies and coffees. And those who don’t, well, we have you and all the other assistants. The intern is an indulgence we only allow because my husband wants leverage with wealthy clients.”

“But Sienna’s really into art.”

That much was obvious: The girl had now turned her head sideways to study the bottom of the artwork. “So?”

“Well, she seems qualified. And she already knows who you are.”

“How exciting for her,” Jasmine said dryly, then paused. “Wait, I thought you said she was here due to pure chance. How could she have researched me already if that was the case?”

“She’s from London and an artist. Wasn’t your old gallery popular among art lovers? I’m sure I read that somewhere.”

That was true, thanks in no small part to her gallery’s publicity manager. The ambitious young man, Dillon, had ensured for years she’d been interviewed by every magazine and TV show in Europe focused on art. By the time she’d left England, she was seen as a powerhouse influencer, the queen of contemporary art curation. An…art icon.

That was then. These days, she was someone else entirely. Apparently a business icon now, or so Forbes magazine claimed last year in its list of up-and-coming CEOs. You’d think US recognition would bring her joy. She was still waiting.

“Dismiss her,” Jasmine ordered Oliver. “I have never liked having unpaid interns in the building. And if I’m not forced to have any given intern underfoot, then I won’t.”

Before Oliver could move, Sienna Fisher stuck her head in the office.

“Hi!” she said, her face open and bright. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Jasmine blinked at her in disbelief.

~ ~ ~

Sienna had never been very good at waiting. She had examined the Bialke artworks from top to bottom. Then she’d scanned the room, admiring all the various artistic flourishes, and had amused herself by guessing which had been sourced by the talentless designer Mark Latouf had hired and which had been chosen by Jasmine.

What had her on the fence was a raven holding a cable, from which dangled a light bulb. This black resin table “lamp” was striking and unusual, definitely bold, so in the end, she slid it into the Jasmine column.

She turned back to the nearest Bialke, admiring the bright colors and contrasting shadows. Of the four paintings on the wall, she liked Charmed Life the most. A naked woman was lying in bed on her stomach, asleep, partially covered by soft blankets, while a towering tree outside her window wrestled and merged with shadows inside her room.

Sienna suddenly noticed that the dawn’s cold, purplish blues and the bright yellows of the rising sun complemented the office’s wallpaper: blue with gold lines. Nothing was a coincidence in art, especially where Jasmine Gemayel was concerned. She was one of the most intentional people Sienna had ever encountered.

She tilted her head sideways to try to figure out a hidden meaning. It was so odd. Every curator knew walls were supposed to emphasize the art on them. Galleries would repaint whole walls in a particular color if they thought it would enhance a new series. So this choice of seemingly just making the best of a bad wallpaper was mystifying. Why not just replace the eyesore instead? Unless Jasmine actually liked the wallpaper? That would be a plot twist. Jasmine had taste.

Sienna had run out of things to examine. Oliver and Jasmine were still talking. She remembered Oliver’s comment that Jasmine might never talk to her in the whole six months she’d be interning.

Six months and no Jasmine conversation at all? That seemed like a crime against art lovers, frankly. Or a crime against awestruck lesbians. Oliver hadn’t been wrong about calling her that.

Maybe she could just stick her head in the door and say hi? Break the ice? Surely Jasmine couldn’t ignore that? Because new staff introduced themselves, right? After that, they weren’t new and couldn’t use it as an excuse. This was her only shot.

So she screwed up all her courage, pasted on her brightest smile, and entered the CEO’s office.

“Hi! I hope I’m not intruding,” Sienna said.

Jasmine’s expression darkened.

Oliver’s eyes went wide, and he started shaking his head out of Jasmine’s eyeline.

Uh oh. But she was here now. In for a penny and all that…“What a wonderful Bialke series you have. Gosh, I’ve never seen one in the flesh before. And I also really wanted to say I’m so excited to be working here. Thank you for the opportunity.”

After a long beat, Jasmine said, soft and deadly, “Do you often barge into meetings?”

“I…” Sienna’s cheeks flooded with heat. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Sorry? For what exactly?” Jasmine asked sharply. “Your poor manners?”

“No, I mean, I didn’t realize it was an actual meeting. I thought you were just talking. See, the last job I had was serving coffees in a really busy market in Croatia. I can understand coffee orders in four languages, but I’m obviously a bit rusty on office protocol.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh and hoped she’d be forgiven.

Forgiveness was not the expression on Jasmine’s face. The CEO swiveled to face Oliver. “Why is a Croatian waitress bothering me?”

A Croatian waitress? Nice. “You, uh, don’t like Croatia?” Sienna blurted out, trying to hide her hurt at the dismissal.

Oliver now shot Sienna a panicked look and mouthed, Oh my God, shut up!

She ignored him. What if this was her only chance to ever talk to Jasmine?

“My thoughts are none of your concern,” Jasmine replied silkily. But then she stopped and frowned. “Why…Croatia of all places?”

“Why not Croatia? It was on my itinerary.” Sienna’s smile was broad. “What better way to learn about life than to live it? So far, I’ve lived in eighteen countries, excluding England, where I was born. No, wait, nineteen. I forgot about Liechtenstein.”

“An understandable omission,” Jasmine noted, tone chilly.

“Hey, don’t knock Liechtenstein. It’s lovely. Gorgeous mountain ranges.”

Jasmine blinked, as if unused to being contradicted.

“Sorry,” Sienna rushed in. “I know everyone has their own opinions of places, good and bad. It’s just I’d hate for the little guy to get overlooked.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Like, for example, I know some people didn’t like GOMEA, but I thought your little gallery was wonderful. Groundbreaking.” She said it earnestly and honestly, but Jasmine’s expression went hard.

“If you’re quite done?” she snapped.

“I…” Ok-ay. So they weren’t going there. “Well, since I’m here, where would you like me to start?”

Oliver’s face dropped, and he stepped forward. “Look, Sienna,” he began, “unfortunately a decision has been made to—”

Jasmine held up her hand, silencing him, a laser-sharp gaze on Sienna. “Why should we hire you?”

“Fate,” she said immediately. “What are the odds of me being here exactly when Oliver was looking for an intern who had decided not to show? Meant to be.”

“Fate is not an answer. Fortune-cookie nonsense. Why should we hire you?” Jasmine repeated. “Give me a reason.”

“I work hard.”