One Year with the Billionaire.

Olivia's Pov

"Miss Chen, if you don't deliver those appetizers in the next thirty minutes, consider your contract terminated."

I stared at my phone, watching the client's threat dissolve into a black screen as my battery died. Perfect. Just perfect.

My catering van had decided to break down on the side of Highway 101, smoke billowing from under the hood like a dragon having a tantrum. Inside the back, three hundred carefully prepared canapés were getting warmer by the minute, and I was supposed to be serving them at Blackwell Industries' investor gala right now.

I kicked the tire. Hard. Pain shot through my foot, but at least I felt something other than the crushing weight of failure.

"Need help?" A trucker slowed down, leaning out his window.

"Unless you can teleport me and two hundred pounds of food to downtown San Francisco in five minutes, I'm beyond help." I tried to smile, but my face wouldn't cooperate.

He drove off. Smart man.

I pulled out my backup phone, the ancient flip phone I kept for emergencies, and called the only person who answered anymore. "Sophie, I need a miracle."

"How bad?"

"Career-ending bad. The Blackwell event. My van died, and I'm going to lose the biggest contract I've ever had." My voice cracked. I couldn't afford to cry. Crying was a luxury for people who had time to fall apart.

"I'm sending a rideshare. Get there. Salvage what you can."

The rideshare cost me eighty dollars I didn't have, and the driver looked ready to murder me when I loaded his pristine Tesla with containers of food. We hit every red light, and I watched the clock tick past the event start time.

When I finally burst through the service entrance of Blackwell Tower, I was two hours late. The event coordinator took one look at me and the lukewarm appetizers and turned pale.

"They're already serving store-bought alternatives. Mr. Blackwell is furious."

My stomach dropped. "Please, just let me set up. I can fix this."

"It's too late." She shook her head. "He wants to see you. Now."

I followed her through pristine hallways, my secondhand heels clicking against marble that probably cost more than my annual income. The ballroom was stunning, all crystal chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the San Francisco skyline. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes held champagne glasses, and I'd never felt more out of place.

Then I saw him.

Ashton Blackwell stood near the bar, his tailored suit fitting him like it was born on his body. He was younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with dark hair and the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers. But his eyes were cold, scanning the room like a predator assessing prey.

The coordinator cleared her throat. "Mr. Blackwell, this is Olivia Chen from-"

"The catastrophically late caterer." His voice was smooth and cutting. "Do you have any idea how unprofessional this makes me look to my investors?"

Heat rushed to my cheeks. "My van