Page 1 of Ruled By Rivalry

Chapter 1

Even now, my mother remains the most organized person I know. She’s the reason I wake up at six every morning to go for a run. She’s why I’m determined (almost to a fault) and don’t give up. She loved fashion, so I studied it. Graduated with honors and scored the internship opportunity of a lifetime.

Whenever I got to visit home, I made sure to tell her headstone how far we’d come.

While I was in the city, my best friend would have to do, though. Pressing my phone tighter against my ear, I dodged another rogue local with a face that told me he would become physical if I got in his way. “I don’t think an intern gets to—no, I don’t think so. If I get to style your boyfriend, Paula, I will let you know!” I added with an airy laugh.

“If you’re styling my boyfriend, I expect to be consulted.”

“Right. The girl who can’t make a decision to save her life and almost showed up to a first date in sweatpants . . . wants to be consulted on fashion choices.”

“Hey!” I could hear the amusement in what she tried to sell as outrage. “Technically, that was not a first date.”

“No, it was worse. You were already in love with the guy,” I deadpanned.

Finally, her laugh rang through the speaker, mixing with police sirens and honking cabs and one angry Italian accent yelling, “Stop pissing on my sidewalk!”

Around me, people frowned at their screens, squeezed through the dense rush hour crowd, and loudly complained about tourists stopping a foot short of them to take photos of a particularly tall building. My smile seemed out of place.

But this was all I’d ever wanted, so I couldn’t help it.

“So, if you’re not styling Henry,” Paula mocked, “what do you have to do?”

“Run-of-the-mill intern stuff, I suppose.” I stopped at a red light and watched at least twenty more people cross. One of them rammed their elbow into my side for not breaking the law. “Ouch. Get coffee, write emails. Observe. Assist.”

“Maeve Peterson: a glorified servant. Can’t say I haven’t been there.” She sighed wistfully and, in sync with the light turning green, asked, “Nervous?”

To avoid getting trampled on my first day, I basically ran across the street. “Excited,” I corrected as soon as I could focus on something other than my basic survival. “I just left my Ashwood-provided apartment”—that I was lucky enough not to share with another intern, as originally intended—“in New York. I’m on my way to the biggest luxury designer in New York. Get to be a glorified servant.” A pause for dramatic effect. “In New York. Me and my best friend live in the same city again.”

Paula was currently writing a profile on a Blue Eagles player, and the team was on a training trip, which meant so was she. Couldn’t say I envied her week full of soccer and sweaty men, but she was coming home tonight.

“You and your best friend will live in New York,” she clarified. “That seems to be a common theme here.”

“In New York!” Not a single person glanced my way when I happily skipped over the next crosswalk. I was sure they were used to much worse. “You’re starting to get it. I’m on my way to my dream job, in my dream city, living in my dream apartment.” With two bedrooms, a large window in the kitchen, and a fire escape I’d definitely be using as a balcony. “And no roommates!”

The line crackled at her loud exhale, not quite a laugh yet. “I was a great roommate.”

I tossed my empty coffee cup and rounded the last corner when I spotted it. My stomach dropped in anticipation. Excitement. This is really happening, I realized, looking up at the giant signature Adeline Ashwood bow engraved on the four-story building in the heart of SoHo.

“You were a great roommate. Listen, babe, I just got to the office—”

“The office.” Paula hummed in approval. “Sounds so official. Let me know when you’ve taken the place over!”

The certainty in her tone before she hung up should’ve been intimidating. Let me know when you’ve taken the place over. High expectations hid behind that statement, but I’d grown up with those, and there was no need to keep them low. I’d been dreaming about this day in some form or another since I was six years old and started picking out my own clothes.

Granted, they weren’t anything as fancy as Adeline Ashwood, but it’s the thought that counted.

I fiddled with the collar of Pops’s old button-up, straightened the sleeveless knit vest layered on top, and made sure both were tucked into the tailored pants I’d been lucky enough to find in the back of Mom’s closet when we’d finally gone through her stuff years ago.

Donate. Toss. Maeve.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out which pile had been the biggest.

With a deep breath, I banned the little flutter of nerves and rush of nostalgia. Then pushed the door into the best day of my life open.

Straight into a security guard’s face.

“Oh my God.” I took a step back just to make sure I wasn’t about to get tackled by the guy. The black sunglasses on his nose sat crooked after the accidental attack, and he lifted them to really look at me.