Chapter 2

Morning at the Ashford estate began in stark contrast.

Upstairs, sunlight bounced off the crystal fixtures in Bianca Ashford's bedroom — a room the size of a studio apartment, done up in peach and ivory, every surface bearing her own expensive, glamorous touch. Even in sleep, she looked like a magazine cover. Designer handbags and limited-edition shoes ringed her bed like offerings at a shrine, all acquired without a second thought.

Downstairs, in a modest room tucked off the back hallway, Kira Ashford was already wide awake. Her space was small — dark wood accents, a twin bed, shelves crammed with scientific journals. It was her fortress. The one place in this house where she could breathe without being judged.

She was already dressed: dark jeans that fit well, a white cotton button-up with the sleeves rolled to three-quarter length, her long wavy hair pulled into a neat ponytail. No expensive makeup — just a swipe of lip balm. She radiated something practical and sharp, a world away from the socialite image this house demanded.

Kira slipped out of her room and headed straight for the kitchen, bypassing the formal dining room that always felt more like a courtroom. The kitchen was the warmest corner of the estate, mostly because of Maggie — the family cook who'd been with the Ashfords for decades.

"Morning, Maggie," Kira said with a genuine smile, her voice soft and bright, like freshly ground coffee.

Maggie, mid-prep at the counter, returned the smile instantly. That warmth never faltered — not for Kira. In Maggie's eyes, Kira was the only Ashford who treated her like a human being. The daughter she would have claimed as her own if life had let her.

"Morning, Miss Kira. I packed your lunch already — that egg and bacon scramble you like. Figured you'd need the energy for the cafe." She held out a stainless steel container wrapped in a small cloth.

"Oh, Maggie, you didn't have to. I can always cook something at the cafe." Kira took the container, her expression softening with gratitude. "But thank you. Nobody cooks like you."

"It's no trouble, Miss Kira. Besides—" Maggie's voice dropped to a murmur, her gaze drifting toward the grand staircase. A subtle gesture toward the people upstairs who never so much as thanked her for a meal. "Who else am I going to cook for?"

Kira understood. She squeezed Maggie's arm gently. "I'm heading out. Take care of yourself today."

She moved through the empty living room and out to the garage, where she fired up the engine of her old Honda — a modest little thing that had been with her since college. It was weathered but spotless, the one asset she'd never let the family's money touch.

Kira pulled out through the estate gates and into the morning traffic, ready to shed the role of overlooked daughter and become the barista everyone admired at Sunset Terrace Cafe.

Not long after Kira left, Harrison and Diana descended from the second floor. Both were groomed and polished, though they carried the unhurried aura of the wealthy — people for whom urgency was someone else's problem.

They settled at the dining table, now laid with a full spread: scrambled eggs, sausages, assorted pastries.

"Maggie, has Kira already left?" Harrison asked, as Maggie finished pouring tea into Diana's porcelain cup.

"Yes, sir. About five minutes ago."

Diana sniffed. "That girl. Never changes. Years living under this roof and she can't be bothered to say goodbye before she leaves. No manners at all. Even at dinner she's more interested in her own plate than anyone at the table."

Harrison exhaled, the sound carrying a faint weariness. "Drop it, Diana. We've all lived together long enough. Let's just have breakfast. Where's Bianca?"

"Still asleep, Harry. She was up late planning what to wear to the dinner at the Sterlings' tonight. Let her rest." Diana spread jam across her toast without looking up.

Harrison set down his knife with a flicker of frustration. "Diana, this isn't the time for coddling. We've been invited to dinner with Adrian Sterling's family. We need to look perfect and be on time. Bianca needs to be up and getting ready now."

He raised his voice toward the kitchen. "Maggie — go wake Bianca, please. Tell her it's from me."

"Yes, sir." Maggie nodded and hurried toward the staircase, her heart quietly aching. Miss Kira, always up and gone on her own before sunrise. Miss Bianca, a grown woman who still needed to be roused from bed.

When Maggie reached the second floor, Bianca was already awake — perched at her vanity, phone in hand, scrolling through her collection of designer handbags on-screen.

"Miss Bianca?"

"Oh, Maggie. What is it? Are Mom and Dad up?" Bianca didn't turn around, her eyes locked on the display.

"Yes, miss. Your father is asking you to come down for breakfast and start getting ready for tonight's dinner at the Sterlings'."

"Right, right. Tell them I'll be down in a minute. I have to make sure my face is perfect for the Sterling heir." The self-absorption in her tone was as natural as breathing. She went back to choosing earrings.

Maggie could only sigh inwardly, then turned to carry the message back downstairs.

It didn't take long after Maggie's visit for Bianca to make her entrance. But what she wore down to breakfast was no casual affair. She had on a silk designer dress she called "loungewear," her hair already set in loose waves, her makeup a flawless nude palette. She was already dressed for the evening — everything about her posture calculated to project maturity and class for the prospective in-laws.

She glided to the table and sat with deliberate elegance.

"Morning, Dad. Morning, Mom." Her voice dripped with an extra layer of sweetness.

"Morning, sweetheart. Eat up." Diana immediately began loading Bianca's plate with the best cuts.

Bianca picked at her breakfast, but it wasn't long before she set her fork down with a theatrical little clink.

"Dad, Mom — I just remembered something." She put on her pout.

"What is it, sweetie? The dress for tonight?" Diana asked.

"No! The driver. Dad, when is the new driver coming? I'm so tired of driving the Mercedes myself. It's exhausting, okay? I have to protect my nails, my skin — I need a personal driver, like, today." She punctuated every word.

Harrison folded his newspaper, mildly irritated by the whining. "Bianca, we just talked about this last night. I've already contacted a professional driver agency. They sent over a few resumes. I'll have the candidates come in today — you can pick one yourself."

"Pick? Can't you just pick for me? I just want someone who doesn't reek of cigarettes, isn't chatty, and knows his place. And definitely not old. Old drivers are slow, forgetful, and they complain about everything." She cut a glance toward Maggie, standing quietly in the corner of the room, as though the remark were partly aimed at her.

Diana laughed lightly. "She's right — young ones are easier on the eyes, sweetie."

"Exactly! Dad, make sure they're young and presentable. I can't have someone embarrassing picking me up at campus." Bianca pressed on.

Harrison nodded with an exhausted patience. "Fine, fine. After breakfast, come to my study. I've got the files ready. You can screen them yourself."

Bianca's expression flipped to satisfaction. "Perfect. I'll make sure I get the best one today."

After the meal, she followed Harrison into his spacious ground-floor study — a room lined with heavy bookshelves and framed business accolades.

"Here. Three top candidates from the agency. All experienced. Read through them properly — don't just look at the photos." He slid three resume folders across the desk.

Bianca settled into the leather chair across from him and snatched the folders up with perfectly manicured fingers.

She opened the first one. The photo showed a weathered face. Under Work History: twenty years of experience.

"Ugh. Old. Bud Santos, fifty-five? No thank you. He probably drives twenty under the speed limit and needs a bathroom break every ten minutes. Next." She tossed the folder to the corner of the desk in disgust.

"Forty-eight. Better, but still old. And that face — he looks like the kind of guy who'd critique my outfits. Hard pass." The second folder met the same fate.

Bianca picked up the third. Her dark eyes locked onto the photo inside and stayed there. It showed a man with a calm, faintly mysterious gaze and an unmistakably athletic build. Despite the reading glasses and simple clothing, something about him radiated a different energy entirely — nothing like an ordinary driver.

"Hmm... Ryan. Thirty-three. Good age. Not too old, not too young and clueless." She scanned the work history: Professional driver with advanced security certification.

"He looks... decent. Not embarrassing to be seen with." A sly smile. She didn't bother questioning why his credentials seemed wildly overqualified for chauffeuring a college student around town. What mattered was that Ryan was young, good-looking, and polished.

"This one, Dad. Ryan. Call him. I want him here this afternoon for an interview and working by tomorrow morning." She pushed Ryan's folder to the center of the desk.

Harrison picked it up and reviewed it again. "Ryan? Good choice. Clean record, strong recommendations. I'll contact the agency and have him come by this afternoon."

"Great. Now I need to practice being cool and authoritative in front of him. He has to know from day one that I'm his boss." Bianca's voice rang with a victor's satisfaction.

With the driver selection settled, she stood. "Well, I'm off, Dad. I've got an appointment with the best makeup artist in the city. My face needs to be flawless for the Sterling heir tonight."

"Of course, sweetheart. Be careful."

Bianca swept out of the study on light feet, buzzing with twin ambitions — winning Adrian Sterling's heart and the thrill of her new, "decent-looking" personal driver.

Across town, in a low-key cafe — not Sunset Terrace, but a busy spot he'd chosen for anonymity — Adrian Sterling answered a call on a cheap prepaid phone.

"Yes, this is Ryan," he said, pitching his voice into the deeper, rougher register he'd been rehearsing.

"Congratulations, Ryan. Miss Bianca Ashford personally selected your resume. You're being asked to come in at four this afternoon for a formal interview and brief orientation. You'll start work tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, sir. I'll be there on time." Adrian ended the call and leaned back in his chair, a crooked grin spreading across his face.

Mission stage one — complete.

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