Six months ago, I didn't know Callum Ashford existed.
That was a good time. A simpler time.
I remember the exact moment that changed.
It was a Tuesday—always a Tuesday when your life shifts sideways—and I was leading the morning operations briefing like I did every week. Twenty staff members crammed into the conference room, coffee cooling in paper cups, everyone half-awake but present because I run a tight ship and they know it.
I was mid-sentence, explaining the new check-in protocol we'd be implementing to reduce lobby congestion during peak hours, when the door opened.
Not unusual. People are late sometimes.
But the way the room shifted—that was unusual.
Conversations died mid-word. Heads turned. And I swear I felt it before I even saw him, this change in air pressure like a storm rolling in off the Sound.
Then he walked in.
Tall. Too tall, really, in a way that made the doorframe look inadequate. Dark suit that probably cost more than my monthly salary, fitted so precisely it had to be tailored. Hair styled with the kind of casual perfection that suggests he doesn't actually care but absolutely does.
And those eyes.
Gray-blue. Sharp. The kind that catalog everything in a glance and file it away for later use.
He scanned the room, taking stock. Then his gaze landed on me, standing at the head of the table with my presentation pulled up on the screen behind me, and something flickered across his face.
Assessment. Calculation.
Like I was a problem he was already solving.
"Sorry I'm late." His voice matched everything else about him—smooth, controlled, with just enough warmth to seem polite without actually meaning it. "First day. Still learning the layout."
He wasn't sorry. I could tell.
"You must be the transfer from New York." I kept my tone professional, pleasant. The same voice I use with difficult guests who think their platinum status means they own the place. "We start promptly at eight. Conference room B, second door on the left past the elevators. Every Tuesday."
A few people shifted uncomfortably. Nobody talks to new hires like that, especially not ones who walk in wearing suits that expensive.
He smiled. Not warmly.
"Duly noted." He took the only empty seat—of course it was right at the table, front and center—and leaned back like he owned it. "Please, continue. Don't let me interrupt."
Except he already had.
The entire energy of the room had changed. People were watching him instead of me, waiting to see what he'd do next, how he'd position himself in the hierarchy we'd all carefully established over months and years of working together.
I hate being interrupted.
But I smiled back—professional, controlled—and continued my presentation.
That should've been the end of it. New guy shows up late, gets a gentle reminder about punctuality, we all move on.
Except ten minutes later, right as I'm explaining the software integration that took me three months to negotiate with IT, he raises his hand.
Actually raises his hand like we're in grade school.
"Yes?" I say, unable to keep the edge completely out of my voice.
"Question about the protocol." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "You're routing all VIP check-ins through the main system before flagging them for concierge services. Wouldn't it be more efficient to create a separate intake flow? Reduce bottlenecks, streamline the guest experience."
The room goes quiet.
Because he's not wrong, exactly. In theory, a separate flow might work.
But theory and practice are different animals in hospitality, and this is my department. My system. Built over two years of trial and error and late nights fixing problems he knows nothing about.
"We tried that last year," I say calmly. "Created communication gaps between departments. Guests fell through the cracks. This way ensures everyone's on the same page."
"Interesting." He tilts his head slightly, studying me. "In New York, we ran dual systems. Worked perfectly. Maybe it's a training issue?"
A training issue.
My staff—people I've personally developed, coached, promoted—and he's suggesting they need better training.
I feel my smile tighten. "Our staff is extensively trained. The system works because it's designed for this property, not a Manhattan high-rise with triple our guest capacity and different clientele."
"Of course." He nods like I've made his point for him. "Every property is different. Though the principles of efficiency are universal, don't you think?"
And there it is. The gauntlet, thrown so smoothly most people probably didn't even catch it.
But I did.
He's not asking questions. He's establishing dominance. Showing everyone in this room that he's not intimidated by me, my position, or my two years of building this department from chaos into something functional.
The rest of the meeting continues with this undercurrent of tension humming beneath every word. He doesn't interrupt again, but I feel him watching. Taking notes. Already planning how he'd do things differently.
Better, probably, in his mind.
When we finally wrap up and everyone files out, I'm packing up my laptop, ready to escape back to my office and the sanity of spreadsheets that don't question my competence.
"Vivienne, right?"
I don't jump, but it's close. He's still there, standing by the window now, hands in his pockets like he's got all the time in the world.
"That's what my name tag says," I reply, keeping my voice light. Professional.
"Callum Ashford." He extends a hand.
I have to shake it. Basic courtesy. His grip is firm, warm, and lasts exactly the appropriate amount of time before releasing. Everything calibrated. Perfect.
"Welcome to Seattle," I say, because what else do you say?
"Thanks." He glances around the conference room, then back to me. "Impressive operation you're running. The staff clearly respects you."
It sounds like a compliment. Almost.
"They respect competence and consistency," I correct. "I just provide that."
"Mmm." That assessing look again. "I've heard good things. VP Hartford says you've turned this department around. That's not easy in hospitality."
The mention of Mr. Hartford—his uncle, I'll learn later, though he never leads with that—feels deliberate. A reminder of connections. Access.
"It's my job," I say simply. "Which I should probably get back to."
I move toward the door, expecting him to let me pass.
He does. Mostly.
But as I walk by, he says quietly, "Looking forward to working with you, Vivienne. I think we'll make a good team."
I pause. Turn.
"We're not a team. I run operations. You're..." I realize I don't actually know his title. "What's your role, exactly?"
His smile is sharper now. Real, maybe, for the first time.
"Operations manager. Same as you."
Same as me.
Not assistant operations manager, which is what I am. Not working under me, learning the ropes.
Same level. Equal footing.
Which means—
"There's only supposed to be one operations manager per property," I say slowly, my mind already racing ahead to what this means.
"Usually, yes." He shrugs, casual. "Corporate wanted to see how a dual-management structure might work. Think of it as an experiment."
An experiment.
With my department. My staff. The systems I've built.
"That's..." I search for a professional way to say absolutely not. "Unusual."
"Progress usually is." He heads for the door, then pauses with his hand on the frame. Looks back. "But don't worry. I'm not here to step on your toes, Vivienne. Just to make sure we're running the best operation possible."
Then he's gone, leaving me standing alone in an empty conference room, my carefully controlled world suddenly feeling a lot less controlled.
The next six months are a masterclass in professional warfare.
We don't fight, exactly. Fighting would be unprofessional. Would give corporate a reason to question our leadership capabilities.
Instead, we compete.
Every proposal I submit, he submits a counter-proposal. Every system I optimize, he suggests a different optimization. Every staff meeting becomes a subtle battle for influence, both of us presenting our visions for the department with smiles that don't reach our eyes.
The staff notices, of course. They're not stupid.
Shayna calls it "sexual tension disguised as workplace rivalry."
I call it "hell."
Because here's the thing about Callum Ashford that I learn over those six months: he's not just arrogant. He's good. Frustratingly, infuriatingly good at this job.
His ideas aren't just theoretical corporate nonsense. They work. The dual intake system he suggested? We eventually implement a modified version, and it does reduce bottlenecks. The staff scheduling software he pushes for? Cuts our overtime costs by fifteen percent.
He's cold, yes. Calculated, absolutely. Treats everything like a chess game he's already won in his head.
But he's also brilliant. Works harder than anyone I've ever met, including myself. First one in, last one out. Knows every guest by name after one interaction. Handles crisis situations with this calm efficiency that would be admirable if it wasn't so annoying.
And he's devastatingly handsome.
I hate that I notice this. Have trained myself to stop noticing.
Doesn't work.
Because awareness isn't something you can schedule or optimize. It just... exists. In the way he rolls up his sleeves during long meetings, forearms corded with muscle that suggests he does more than sit behind a desk. In the rare moments when he smiles—really smiles, not the professional mask—and his whole face transforms into something younger, less guarded.
In the way he looks at me sometimes, when he thinks I'm not paying attention.
Like I'm a puzzle he can't solve. And it bothers him.
Good. I hope it keeps him up at night.
Our first real confrontation happens three months in.
I'm presenting the quarterly performance review to Mr. Hartford and the executive team. Everything's going well—our numbers are strong, guest satisfaction is up, staff retention is the highest it's been in five years.
Then Callum asks to add to my presentation.
He pulls up his own slides. Shows data I haven't seen, analysis that contradicts some of my projections, suggestions for "areas of improvement" that make my work sound incomplete.
In front of the executives. In front of the VP.
I sit there, jaw clenched, maintaining my professional expression while internally plotting his demise.
After the meeting, I corner him in the hallway.
"What the hell was that?"
He has the audacity to look surprised. "What was what?"
"You ambushed me in there. Made it look like I didn't do my due diligence."
"I presented additional data." His tone is maddeningly calm. "That's collaboration, Vivienne. We're supposed to be working together."
"Working together would involve sharing that data before the meeting. Not using it to undermine me."
Something flashes in his eyes. Annoyance, maybe. Or respect—it's hard to tell with him.
"I'm not trying to undermine you," he says quietly. "I'm trying to make sure we're giving corporate the full picture."
"You're trying to make yourself look better."
"And you're not?"
The question stops me cold. Because he's right, isn't he? We're both positioning ourselves. Playing the game. Trying to prove we're indispensable.
It's just that I was here first. This is my department. My territory.
He's the invader.
"I've been building this operation for two years," I say, keeping my voice low even though the hallway's empty. "Two years of late nights and crisis management and turning this place around from the disaster it was. You don't get to walk in after six months and act like you know better."
He steps closer. Not threatening, exactly, but deliberate. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
Close enough that I can see the exact color of his eyes—more blue than gray in this light, with these darker rings around the iris that are completely irrelevant to this conversation.
"I'm not acting like anything," he says quietly. "I'm doing my job. Same as you. If that threatens you—"
"I'm not threatened by you."
His mouth curves slightly. "No?"
"No."
We're standing too close. Professional distance is definitely more than this. But neither of us steps back, locked in this moment of mutual stubbornness.
"Good," he says finally. "Because the best work happens when people push each other. Challenge each other. You make me better, Vivienne. Whether you want to admit it or not."
Then he walks away, leaving me standing there with my heart doing this weird stutter-step thing that's definitely just anger.
Has to be anger.
Can't be anything else.
Now, standing in the hallway outside Conference Room A with the promotion announcement still ringing in my ears, I watch him walk away after delivering that final line.
"May the best candidate win. Though we both know who that is."
The arrogance. The absolute certainty.
Six months of this. Of him questioning everything I do. Suggesting improvements. Looking at me with those sharp eyes like he's cataloging my weaknesses.
And now we're competing for the same position.
One job. Two candidates.
Two weeks to prove who deserves it more.
I should hate this. Should be dreading every second of the forced collaboration ahead.
Instead, I feel this rush of adrenaline. This sharp, electric anticipation.
Because Callum Ashford might be brilliant and infuriating and far too attractive for his own good.
But I'm better.
And I'm going to prove it.
Even if working with him for two weeks might actually kill me.
Or worse—make me forget why I'm supposed to hate him in the first place.