Isabella's heels clicked softly against the polished hardwood floors as she followed Amanda Greene through the wide glass corridor of the 18th floor. Every corner was elegant—sleek desks, modern lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows that bathed the office in gold.
"This is where the associates work," Amanda said. "We've placed you with our top-tier juniors. You'll be working alongside some very ambitious minds."
Isabella smiled politely, nodding.
They stopped at a sleek glass cubicle—spacious, with a state-of-the-art laptop already humming on the pristine white desk. To the left sat a woman so striking, she could have walked off a magazine cover. Her long chestnut hair was tied in a silk ribbon, and her fitted navy suit hugged her tall frame with tailored perfection. Sharp cheekbones, red lipstick, and cold, calculating eyes.
Amanda gestured. "Isabella, you'll be seated right here. This is Veronica Clarke—one of our most seasoned juniors. I'm sure she'll help you get settled."
Veronica turned slowly, flashing a practiced smile. "Welcome," she said, voice dripping with sweetness laced in steel. "We've all heard about the 'Hart girl.' Top of your class. Daughter of Gregory Hart. Quite the reputation."
Isabella kept her posture calm, her expression polite. "Just here to work hard. Like everyone else."
"Of course," Veronica replied, turning back to her screen with a flick of her manicured nails. "Though around here, working hard often means staying in your lane."
Isabella's eyes narrowed slightly as Amanda walked away. She set her bag down, adjusted her laptop, and looked out the window briefly to steady herself. She had faced competition before. But Veronica's kind wasn't just competitive—she wanted to dominate. She didn't want to share the spotlight.
A gentle knock on the divider snapped her from her thoughts.
It was Lily again, holding two iced coffees. "Figured you could use a caffeine shield," she said with a playful whisper, glancing discreetly toward Veronica.
Isabella accepted it with a soft laugh. "You're a lifesaver."
"I know Queen Veronica's a little much. She's brilliant, but she treats the office like a chessboard. Just keep your head up. You'll shine on your own."
"Thanks, Lily. I'll be fine."
Isabella turned back to her screen, the reflection of Veronica's steely eyes caught faintly in the glass.
She would survive this.
But she had just met her first real enemy.
And the war had already begun.
Isabella stepped out of the gleaming glass doors of Harrington & Rowe, the towering building reflecting the city lights like a cathedral of ambition. Her heels clicked with quiet confidence on the marble steps, her new company laptop tucked securely in her designer bag. Though her face remained poised, inside her mind was reeling—from the grandeur of her private office to the frosty reception of her desk neighbor, Veronica Chase.
Veronica was stunning, undeniably. With sleek blonde hair, piercing green eyes, and a wardrobe pulled straight from the pages of a fashion magazine, she radiated ambition. But behind that beauty was something sharp—possessive and territorial. She hadn't said much, but her glances spoke volumes. Isabella could tell she didn't like competition, especially not in someone equally polished and prepared.
Still, Isabella smiled at the thought. She hadn't come this far to be overshadowed.
By the time she returned home, the Marlowe estate shimmered under the early evening sky. The wrought iron gates opened soundlessly, and the long driveway curved past manicured hedges and marble fountains. Her family's mansion stood proud—three stories of white stone, Greek columns, and arched windows glowing warmly from within.
As she entered the foyer, the scent of rosemary, roasted lamb, and something sweet welcomed her in. The marble floors echoed her footsteps until the butler appeared with a soft smile.
"Welcome home, Miss Isabella. Your parents are waiting in the dining hall."
She smiled, thanking him quietly, and made her way to the heart of the house. The dining room was elegant and intimate, with a polished mahogany table stretching beneath a crystal chandelier. Her mother, Grace Marlowe, sat at the head of the table—poised as ever in a tailored ivory dress, her hair swept up into a perfect chignon. Her father, Jonathan Marlowe, stood beside the wine rack, pouring himself a glass of vintage red. He was the picture of success—gray-templed, broad-shouldered, his laughter rich and practiced like someone who had dined with kings.
"Ah, there she is," Jonathan said, raising his glass. "The newest gem of Harrington & Rowe."
Grace's eyes lit up as she gestured for Isabella to sit beside her. "Darling, you look radiant. How was your first day?"
Isabella smiled softly, sliding into her seat as a housemaid served dinner. "Intense. Beautiful office. Endless expectations. It's... a world of its own."
Jonathan laughed, that deep, cultured laugh that echoed through the halls. "Of course it is. That firm wouldn't be half what it is without our family's investments. I still remember when I bought shares back when they expanded to the West Coast. Now, look at it—top five in the country."
Grace touched her daughter's hand gently. "And now our daughter is part of it."
Isabella cut into her lamb, the flavors rich and delicate on her tongue. "They assigned me a private office. Floor-to-ceiling windows, my name already on the door. And I've got a company laptop, a full software suite—everything."
Jonathan grinned. "That's how they treat the best. Deserved."
"There's this woman who sits next to me though," Isabella added, her tone more thoughtful. "Veronica. Gorgeous. Smart. But... I don't think she's too happy I'm there."
Her mother raised a perfectly arched brow. "Office politics begin early. Just be smarter. Colder, if needed."
Jonathan chuckled again. "Let her bark. You just keep rising. Let people hate you for winning."
Isabella smiled, letting their pride warm her. But a flicker of unease still lingered in her chest. Veronica wasn't just ambitious—she was calculated, and something told her this wouldn't be a harmless rivalry.
Still, she looked around her—at the luxury, the support, the confidence they had in her. She had a seat at the table now. And she wouldn't give it up for anyone.
Not even Veronica Chase.