Lyla Hunt sailed through her divorce from Westley Grant in under ten minutes, thanks to the absence of children or property disputes. She emerged from the city clerk's office, clutching the divorce papers, and sighed with relief. Playing mind games with someone as self-absorbed as Westley, she'd found that a bit of reverse psychology worked wonders.
Westley's voice—cool and dismissive—still echoed in her mind: "Lyla, you'll be begging me to take you back within three days."
Without missing a beat, she retorted, "Not a chance."
He didn't bother arguing, merely curling his lips into a sardonic smile before slipping into his luxury car and driving away.
With a smirk, Lyla called after the retreating vehicle, "Westley, I washed my hands of foolishness long ago. I wouldn't come crawling back, even if you offered me a fortune!"
Buoyed by fresh resolve, Lyla flagged down a taxi, heading to stay at Norah Warren's place temporarily. Their friend Joelle Starr was off in L.A. filming, so Lyla could squat in Joelle's room until she landed a job and found her own place.
Armed with a degree from a music conservatory, Lyla had been the lead singer in a band she started with friends. But marriage to Westley had led to the band's disbandment. It was painful to reflect on those days; her musical dreams seemed out of reach now, not only because they were costly but also because they weren't exactly a goldmine.
Thankfully, she was a proficient pianist with advanced certifications. By the time she'd sifted through listings for piano tutor positions and openings in music stores, it was already 2 a.m. Too anxious to sleep, she worried she wouldn't find work and might have to return to Westley with the absurd offer to donate a kidney to his mistress.
Lyla was thankful for friends like Norah and Joelle during tough times. One provided companionship; the other offered a place to stay, clothes, and makeup—and they'd both offer financial help if necessary. Joelle might not be earning millions as an actress, but her generosity spoke volumes.
It was Norah and Joelle's support that bolstered Lyla's belief that with perseverance and hard work, she'd turn things around. Yet, reality delivered a harsh jolt. Music schools and stores showed interest until they heard her name, and then abruptly backed out.
This was unnervingly odd. Finally, the wife of a store owner discreetly suggested she might have offended someone powerful. Angry and impatient, Lyla zoomed off on Joelle's scooter. Westley, you lowlife, just wait.
Crash! Taking a sharp turn too fast, Lyla collided with a sleek black car, sending both her and the scooter sprawling. Looking up, she saw the car's badge.
Oh great, a Rolls-Royce. Selling both kidneys might not cover the damage.
"Are you alright?" a man's voice pierced her haze. Lyla looked up, taking in the man's ensemble—black pants, black shirt, and a face that could have been chiseled from marble. Blinking several times, she wondered if her sight was playing tricks.
Marcellus West leaned down, his gaze almost burning into hers. Was Marcellus hallucinating from longing for someone named Ashling? Yet Lyla knew she wasn't mistaken as she stared at the face so close to hers.
It seemed fate had slammed one door shut but opened another. How else could she have crashed right into Westley's nemesis, the dignified Marcellus West?
Lyla's eyes twinkled with an idea, her lips curling into a sly grin. The enemy of her enemy might just be her ally.
Pressing his temples in exasperation, Marcellus avoided looking directly at Lyla. His voice was deep and commanding as he offered, "I should take you to a hospital."
Grasping his arm to stand, Lyla shook her head. "No need. It's just a scrape."
Fortunately, the car hadn't been moving fast, or she might have been flattened. Still holding onto his arm, she beamed at him, "You're Mr. West, right?"
Even with Lyla's hands dirty, Marcellus, typically fastidious, didn't brush her off. He nodded slightly, asking, "You're certain you're alright?"
"Absolutely." Releasing his arm, she stood firmly, glancing at the car's scratch. Her eyes darted with cunning as she mulled over a plan.
With sincerity, she suggested, "Mr. West, does your company need employees? I could pay for the repairs gradually, deducted from my paycheck."
Being Westley's rival, Marcellus likely wouldn't hesitate to offer her a job. Feeling his intense gaze, Lyla knew she was out of options—and she needed work, desperately.
Ignoring her suggestion, Marcellus turned to his assistant, Ezra Simpson. "Take care of this," he instructed.
"Yes, sir," Ezra responded, though his attention seemed divided, fixed on how much Lyla resembled someone named Ashling.
Abandoning the scooter, Lyla waited anxiously for Marcellus's reply. His deep, magnetic voice shattered the stillness: "Can you walk?"
Lyla nodded, "Yes, I can," and hurried to catch up, ignoring the pain in her knee. When Marcellus opened the passenger door for her, she climbed in swiftly.
Despite Westley's depiction of Marcellus as conniving and ruthless, Lyla now questioned that characterization. Love had clearly blinded her to the real heartlessness.
Politely expressing her gratitude, Lyla settled into the car. She reasoned that Marcellus was too sophisticated to harm her—especially since she was the one at fault.
As the car rolled along, she felt awkward having Marcellus drive her. After the accident, trusting her with the wheel was likely out of the question.
Admiring his profile from the passenger seat, Lyla swallowed hard, struggling to find words that captured his allure. The man's charisma was even more striking than his looks. While good looks could spark infatuation, add charisma, and the effect was overpowering.
Lyla checked her daydreams, reminding herself that no matter how captivating the man, her priority was securing a job. At a stoplight, she cleared her throat.
"Mr. West, where are we heading?"
