ARIEL
The stack of rejection letters on my desk had officially surpassed the height of my coffee mug. I stared at them, my chin propped on my hand, and sighed. Another day, another email that began with “We regret to inform you.” I’d lost count of how many I’d received this month alone.
The scent of stale coffee and old paper filled the air, a bitter reminder of countless hours spent hunched over my desk, pouring my soul onto the page only to have it rejected time and time again.
My ancient laptop’s fan was the only sound in the room, a constant drone that usually comforted me but now only served to highlight the silence of my solitude.
I reached out, tracing the edge of a crumpled rejection letter, the paper rough under my fingertips.
Each one was a dream deferred, a story untold, a piece of my heart sent out into the world only to be returned, unwanted.
My apartment was small. I liked to call it cozy, but sometimes, it felt more like a prison cell.
Clutter surrounded me, threatening to fall on me like a tsunami of half-finished manuscripts, sticky notes with scribbled ideas, and old takeout containers that I really needed to throw out.
My laptop screen glowed in the dim room, the cursor blinking on a blank page, taunting me.
I leaned back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. “Come on, Ariel,” I muttered to myself. “You’re better than this.”
My phone buzzed, and I nearly knocked over my coffee in my haste to grab it. The screen lit up with an unknown number. My heart skipped a beat. Could this be it? The call I’d been waiting for?
My hand trembled slightly as I swiped to answer. “Hello?” I answered, trying to sound professional and not like I’d been staring at rejection letters for the past hour. I straightened in my chair, my back stiff with anticipation.
“Ariel Hayes?” a woman’s voice asked, crisp and businesslike.
“Yes, this is she.”
“This is Gladys from Discreet Talent Connections. We’ve reviewed your portfolio, and we’d like to offer you an assignment.”
I sat up straighter, my pulse quickening. “An assignment?”
“Yes. A high-profile client is in need of a ghostwriter for his autobiography. The pay is substantial, and the exposure could be career-changing. Are you interested?”
“Interested?” I repeated, my voice rising an octave. “Yes! Absolutely. Thank you so much for this opportunity.”
“Good,” Gladys said briskly. “The client’s name is Sterling Nightfang. He’s expecting you at his office today at three o’clock.”
I blinked, my mind racing. Sterling Nightfang. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “Sterling Nightfang,” I repeated slowly, as if saying it out loud would jog my memory. “Wait, isn’t he that billionaire? The soccer player?”
“Former soccer player,” Gladys corrected. “Now a CEO and investor. He’s looking for someone to ghostwrite his autobiography. It’s a high-profile project, Ariel. If you do well, it could open a lot of doors for you.”
My heart raced. This was the kind of break I needed. A high-profile project with a billionaire client. But something about the way Gladys said his name gave me pause. “Is there anything I should know about him? Anything specific he’s looking for in a writer?”
Gladys hesitated. Her cold no-nonsense tone softened for a moment. “He’s particular. Demanding. But he’s also fair. If you can handle the pressure, this could be a game-changer for you. Oh, and Ariel, there’s a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus if you meet him and secure the job.”
I nearly dropped the phone. “Fifty thousand dollars?” I squeaked, my voice cracking. “As in five-zero-thousand?”
“Yes. But don’t get too excited yet. You’ll need to impress him first. He doesn’t suffer fools lightly.”
My mind was spinning. Fifty thousand dollars.
That was more money than I’d made in the last two years combined.
It could pay off my student loans, cover rent for months, and maybe even let me finally upgrade my old laptop.
“I’ll impress him,” I said with confidence despite the butterflies in my stomach.
“I won’t let this opportunity slip away. ”
“Good,” Gladys said. “I’ll send over the details. And Ariel? Good luck. You’re going to need it.”
The line went dead, and I stared at my phone, still processing what had just happened.
A high-profile ghostwriting job. A billionaire client.
A fifty-thousand-dollar bonus. My stomach churned with a mix of excitement and anxiety.
This was it, the big break I’d been waiting for.
But it also felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, the wind pushing at my back, daring me to jump.
A wave of doubt crashed over me. What if I’m not good enough? What if I freeze up or say the wrong thing? This could be my one shot, and I can’t afford to blow it. I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Okay, Ariel,” I muttered. “You’ve got this. Just don’t mess it up.”
The next few hours were a whirlwind of preparation.
I rushed to my closet, yanking out clothes and tossing them onto my bed.
Professional but not stuffy. Confident but not arrogant.
I needed to look like someone who could handle a billionaire’s demands.
I finally settled on a navy blazer over a white blouse and dark jeans.
It was polished but approachable. I paired it with my lucky purple glasses, hoping they’d give me an extra boost of confidence.
I spent the next hour Googling Sterling Nightfang, trying to get a sense of the man I was about to meet.
Former soccer star turned billionaire investor.
Reclusive. The more I read, the worse my stomach felt.
This man was powerful, private, and used to getting what he wanted.
And I was about to walk into his world armed with nothing but a notebook and hope.
My reflection in the mirror stared back at me, wide-eyed and frenzied. “You got this,” I told her, adjusting my glasses. “Just be yourself. And for God’s sake, don’t spill coffee on him.”
The Sterling Sports Headquarters loomed over me like a glass mountain, all sharp edges and sparkling windows.
My sneakers squeaked against the pristine lobby floor as I approached the reception desk, acutely aware of how underdressed I suddenly felt.
The woman behind the counter gave me a polite smile.
“Ariel Hayes for Sterling Nightfang,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected.
“Mr.Nightfang is expecting you. Take the elevator to the 42nd floor. His assistant will meet you there.”
The elevator ride was silent except for the pounding of my heart. When the doors slid open, a young man in a crisp suit nodded at me. “Ms.Hayes? Mr.Nightfang is in the gym. Follow me.”
The gym? I blinked but kept pace as he led me down a hallway. The scent of antiseptic and rubber hit me as we entered a sprawling fitness center. In the center of it all, was Sterling Nightfang.
Shirtless, glistening, every muscle defined like a Renaissance sculpture of the perfect male form. His fists pummeled the bag with a rhythm that echoed my suddenly erratic heartbeat. My throat went dry.God help me.
He didn’t notice me at first, lost in the rhythm of his movement.
I stood frozen, clutching my notebook like a shield, as I took in the sight of him.
His dark hair was damp, stuck to his forehead, and his jaw was set in a hard line, every punch delivered with controlled fury.
He was every inch the powerhouse I’d imagined the world’s most famous soccer player to be, intimidating, commanding, and undeniably magnetic.
The sight of him, all rippling muscles and glistening tanned skin, was almost too much to take in.
His muscles bunched and released with each punch, a powerful force of nature in skin and bones.
Even from across the room, I could see the sweat glistening on his skin, tracing every ridge and valley across his body as each drop dripped to the floor.
He was utterly magnificent. A statue of a god come to life.
The heat of the room seemed to press in on me, my notebook a flimsy shield against his intensity.
Finally, he paused. Turning to face me, his chest heaved. His eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto mine. For a split second, I felt like prey under the gaze of a predator. My pulse hammered in my throat.
“You must be the writer.” He didn’t look up from his punching bag as he spoke.
“Ariel Hayes,” I managed, my fingers tightening around the spine of my notebook. “Nice to meet you, Mr.Nightfang.”
He grabbed a towel from a nearby bench and wiped his face. His expression was unreadable. “Call me Sterling.” He tossed the towel aside and crossed his arms, his biceps flexing in a way that made it hard to focus. “Gladys tells me you’re the best. Let’s see if she’s right.”
I swallowed, my confidence wavering under his scrutiny. “I’ll do my best to live up to that.”
He nodded, gesturing to a set of weights by a weightlifting bench. “Good. Sit. I don’t have time for chit-chat, so let’s get to work.”
I hesitated, glancing back at the weights. Was he serious? Did he expect me to sit on a stack of weights while we discussed his autobiography? But then I noticed the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and I realized he was testing me. Of course.
“You’re the boss,” I said, raising an eyebrow as I perched on the edge of the bench. “But if I fall off, it’s on you.”
His smirk widened, just barely. Something hot and feral coiled in my belly. “Fair enough.” He grabbed a water bottle and took a long swig before leaning against the rack opposite me. “So, you’ve read the brief. What do you need from me?”
I flipped open my notebook, grateful for something to focus on besides his intimidating presence. “I’ll need to interview you. Extensively. Your childhood, your soccer career, your transition to business. The more honest you are, the better the book will be.”