Chapter One
Falling For My Enemy Boss
Sebastian
I fucking hate these vultures.
Flashbulbs pop like goddamn firecrackers, and I immediately regret not taking the service entrance.
“Mr. Hayes! Is it true Hayes & Co. is on the brink of bankruptcy?”
“Is your mother stepping down?”
“Are you being replaced?”
I don’t flinch, but my jaw tightens. A camera nearly grazes my cheek. Someone’s perfume, strong and cheap, chokes the air. Marcus, my head of security, muscles through the chaos, one hand flat against my back, steering me like I’m some glass sculpture he doesn’t want to be shattered.
Your company hired Olivia Mercer! Doesn’t she have a history of being mentally unstable?
That grabs my attention as I make eye contact with the scrawny, poorly dressed reporter who asked the question. As soon as he sees he has my attention, he seizes his opportunity and launches more questions.
She punched Fratelli. Are you scared of her assaulting you one day, too?
I flip him off without thinking and the camera flashes faster. Fuck! I shouldn’t have let them get to me.
“I’ve got you, sir. They’ll clear off once we’re inside.” Marcus pushes through them.
“They better. Or I’m charging double for this performance.”
The Hayes & Co. headquarters looms above us with glass, steel, and expensive branding. But all I can see are cracks. Metaphorical ones. The kind that creeps beneath the surface until the whole thing crumbles.
Inside, the lobby is silent. As if it knows I’m about to walk into war. My mother’s war, apparently.
Olivia Mercer.
The name tastes like static on my tongue. Bold designer. Industry darling. Supposed savior of the family brand. I read every damn thing I could find on her last night: articles, interviews, even a half-hour podcast where she laughed at her own jokes and talked about fashion like it was religion. I know her résumé better than mine.
And still, I don’t like her. I mean, yeah, I like very few people, but Olivia seems like she’ll be a pain in the ass.
Am I scared of her assaulting me? Fuck that! I’ll see to it that she’s not here long.
I jab the elevator button with a little more force than necessary.
In there, I hold my breath as the machine whirrs. I’ve always had a thing about tight spaces. They make me uneasy and transport me back in time to when I was twelve, and I—
The elevator doors open, and I rush out, leaving the past behind.
Margot’s already waiting in the conference room when I walk in, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, and draped in a grey pantsuit.
“Sebastian, you look like you’ve slept… horribly. I blame the espresso martinis.”
“I didn’t drink last night.”
“Ah. So just stress, then. You really need a lady in your life, Seb.”
“Good morning to you too, Margot.” I shrug off my coat and hang it on the chair. “Where’s Miles?”
“Hungover. Again. I saw him begging his assistant for some green tea. You know how your brother is.”
“And Olivia Mercer? The golden goose?”
“She’ll be here. Don’t wet yourself.”
My mother walks in, a white tailored suit with gold buttons and a brooch shaped like a dagger. Fitting. She kisses Margot on both cheeks and ignores me.
“Is Julian coming?” I ask.
“He just texted. On his way,” Eleanor says. “He’s actually looking forward to this.”
“He shouldn’t be,” I snap. “He’s the creative director. Olivia is a direct insult to his role.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Margot says, sipping something green. “You could use a little creative input yourself.”
“I run the business.”
“And yet the business is hemorrhaging ,” Eleanor says. “We need new blood.”
Julian strolls indoors in a hoodie, skinny jeans, and sunglasses. He throws himself into a chair and then grins.
“Yo. Morning chaos?”
“Yo? You should be pissed about Olivia being hired,” I tell him.
Julian lifts his sunglasses. “Why? I’m not a fucking child.”
“You look like shit,” Margot tells him.
“Thanks for the warm welcome.”
“Didn’t sleep?”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
She hums knowingly. “Seb didn’t sleep well either. This isn’t sustainable for you boys. Your cortisol levels are probably ridiculous.”
Mom shakes her head. “We need you sharp, Sebastian. Not fried.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re pacing like a feral cat,” Julian pipes in from across the table, kicking his boots up on a chair. “You want me to get you a stress ball or something?”
“I want answers,” I snap. “Like why we’re bringing in an outsider to fix something Julian already has under control.”
Julian snorts. “I draw. I don’t fix.”
“You’re the Creative Director. That’s literally your job.”
“And you’re the CEO. Maybe you should’ve fixed things before Mom called for backup.”
I whip my head toward my mother. “You really blindsided us with this, you know.”
“I don’t owe you full transparency before making an executive hire,” she says, unbothered. “And I’m not asking permission. I’m making a decision.”
Margot looks between us, amused. “You sound just like your father when you get like this, Seb. Sulky. Bossy. Mistrustful.”
“Don’t forget downright paranoid,” mother adds.
“What, and he was wrong to be mistrustful?”
“Careful,” Mom says sharply, not looking at me. “This company was built with a hell of a lot more risk and intuition than you’re comfortable with.”
“And it nearly went under because of it.”
Julian shrugs. “He’s got a point.”
Mom sighs, suddenly looking tired. “This isn’t about your father. Or you. It’s about the future.”
“And what, Olivia Mercer is the future?”
“She’s proven. She’s bold. And she’s unafraid to challenge the old ways. We need that.”
“She also left her last job under… complicated circumstances,” I say.
Margot lifts an eyebrow. “So did you, if I recall. At Stanford.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?” Mom chimes.
Julian leans forward, finally interested. “Can we return to how weird it is that I’m not the one pissed about this? She’s stepping into my lane.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Why aren’t you more pissed?”
He shrugs. “Because unlike you, I’m not threatened by every woman with ideas.”
I let the jab roll off. “I don’t like surprises. Especially ones that waltz in with a PR crisis attached.”
“She hasn’t even walked in the room yet,” Eleanor says, crossing her legs. “Maybe give her a moment to disappoint you before you burn her at the stake.”
I glance at the door. My jaw clenches. My heart’s beating faster than it should be. Why? I have no idea.
The door opens; she walks in.
Red hair: thick, wavy, in a bun. Green eyes that don’t flinch. Olive-green utility-style jumpsuit rolled up at the sleeves, cinched at the waist, hugging curves that she clearly gives zero fucks about hiding.
Wait, why am I noticing her curves?
“Sorry I’m late. A coffee line from hell,” she says, lifting a paper cup like a peace offering.
“You're not late, dear.” Mom smiles so wide that I worry her Botox may have issues. “We’re early.
“Good morning.”
Margot stands to greet her like she’s a long-lost daughter. Eleanor smiles. Julian looks mildly entertained. I stay still.
Because she is exactly what I expected, and I hate being right.
The boardroom fills: with directors, investors, and overpaid consultants. Eleanor stands at the head of the table.
“You all know why we’re here,” she says. “Hayes & Co. needs new energy, new vision. That’s why I’ve hired Olivia Mercer to launch what we’re calling the Renaissance Project.”
Polite claps. Olivia stands and walks to the screen. Her voice is clear, steady, and self-assured.
“I, um, didn’t prepare a speech, so guys should be thanking God because I give terrible speeches,” she says and chuckles fill the room. “But regardless, the important thing is that I’ve studied the DNA of this brand,” she says. “And it’s exquisite. Classic. But also stagnant.”
Stagnant? I almost choke.
“We’re not a museum,” she continues. “We’re a fashion house. Fashion evolves. So should we.”
We? Since when?
She clicks to a slide of bold, angular sketches: modern silhouettes with dramatic edges.
“Those aren’t on-brand,” I say.
She smiles without looking at me. “They’re the new brand.”
“You’re talking about replacing the entire Spring line.”
“I am.”
“Without any data?”
“With instinct. And innovation.”
“And arrogance,” I add.
That gets her attention. She turns to me fully. “Do you want results, or do you want to keep watching numbers drop while pretending you’re in control?”
Who the fuck does she think she is?
A murmur runs through the room. Julian’s watching us like it’s a soap opera.
I lean back in my chair. “What I want is for you to respect the fact that you’re a guest here. Not royalty.”
“And yet, I was invited,” she says sweetly. “Wait, scratch that. I was hired.”
Board members exchange looks. Margot grins behind her tablet. Eleanor sips her water like it’s a martini.
I say nothing, and she continues with her presentation. The meeting ends with forced applause and fake smiles. I storm out before someone says synergy again.
Ten minutes later, Olivia walks into my office without knocking.
“You’re a peach, you know that?”
I glance up from my laptop. “You should knock.”
“You should pull the stick out of your ass.”
What the hell?
She closes the door.
“Insulting your boss on the first day. At least, you have balls.” I stand. Slowly. “What the hell do you want?”
“To know why you hate me.”
“You want the list alphabetically or in order of ego?”
She folds her arms, bare, freckled, and toned. “You’re threatened by me.”
“You’re not that special.”
“You read my entire résumé. You corrected someone on my Parsons fellowship. You even quoted a line from an obscure panel I did three years ago in Milan.”
I say nothing. Because fuck.
“You’re obsessed.”
“I’m informed,” I grind out. “There’s a big difference.”
“Right. Well, here’s the reality, you’re the boss. I get that. But I’m the creative. That’s the one thing you can’t do. So step aside and let me do what you hired me for.”
“Your’re mistaken, I didn’t hire you.”
She walks toward me, stopping just a little too close. Her eyes flash, sharp and alive. “Your mother did. Who, last time I checked, still signs your paychecks.”
My nostrils flare. I shouldn’t look at her lips. But I do, just for a second.
“You’re only here because of her,” I say. “And just like your last job… you’ll be gone when shit eventually hits the fan because of you.”
Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite rage.
“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
“I understand power.”
“Then you should recognize that I report to your mother and not to you.”
I blink. She turns on her heel and heads for the door, red hair swaying like a dare.
“We’re just getting started, Sebastian Hayes and I’m gonna do my job, with or without you,” she says before she leaves.
And I believe her.
God help me, I believe her.