The irony was bitter. Just hours earlier, I'd been convinced my life was finally coming together.
I'd been at the delivery station, organizing orders on my battered electric scooter. The air smelled of exhaust and cheap grease. Then a hush fell over the yard as a sleek obsidian sedan with the plate "88888" rolled through the gates.
A coworker nudged my ribs. "Holy hell, look at that."
Every rider stopped dead. The rear door opened and a woman stepped out—stunning, dressed in a tailored gown worth more than our combined annual salaries.
"Damn, is that a celebrity?"
"Idiot, that's Vivienne Ashford's ride," another whispered. "The Ashford Group's Chairwoman. Imagine having a sister like that."
I froze. Vivienne's sharp gaze swept across the sea of yellow vests. She spotted me instantly.
Shit.
I ducked my head, abandoning my scooter and slipping toward the dorms. I needed to disappear. I hurried into the locker room, planning to change and bolt out the back.
But the moment I turned around, she was blocking the doorway.
Vivienne's expression was dark, her posture radiating the kind of authority that made CEOs tremble. I stepped back, clutching my helmet like a shield.