Destined: Lucifer Morningstar

Part 1

JANET

The first thing people noticed about me was that I never panicked.

Not when a client threatened to walk away from a million-dollar deal. Not when a closing fell through six hours before the deadline. Not when my boss accidentally double-booked three showings and expected me to fix the mess with a smile.

I just... handled it.

Apparently, that was promotion-worthy.

"Regional Director."

I rolled the words around in my mouth as if saying them enough times would make them feel real.

The email still sat open on my laptop, the bold letters staring back at me.

Congratulations. We are pleased to offer you the position of Regional Director for our Los Angeles office...

Los Angeles.

Three hundred and eighty-three miles from everything I'd ever known.

I leaned back in my chair and looked around my tiny apartment. Half-packed boxes lined the walls, each one labeled in neat black handwriting because chaos gave me hives.

Books.

Kitchen.

Winter Clothes.

Not that I'd be needing those anymore.

I sighed.

"You asked for this," I reminded myself.

I had.

For years.

I wanted bigger clients. Bigger projects. Bigger opportunities.

Apparently, the universe had been listening.

The promotion wasn't just another rung on the corporate ladder—it was the ladder.

My own office.

A team of agents.

Luxury listings.

Celebrity clients, if I was lucky.

It was everything twenty-eight-year-old Janet had dreamed about while surviving endless coffee runs and impossible deadlines.

So why did my stomach feel like it was preparing for a plane crash?

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

"I brought food," Maya announced before I even opened it.

Of course she had.

She stood there balancing two takeout bags and wearing the grin that had gotten us through university, heartbreaks, and more bad decisions than either of us cared to admit.

 Maya was my bestfriend, he had been with me throghtout everything, she knew me inside out.

"You look terrified," she observed as she stepped inside.

"I look excited."

"You look like someone told you puppies aren't real."

I laughed despite myself.

"That obvious?"

"Painfully."

She unpacked containers onto my kitchen counter with practiced efficiency.

"So." She folded her arms. "Tell me again why you're voluntarily moving to a city where smoothies cost twenty dollars and everyone has perfect teeth."

"It's called career advancement."

"It's called abandoning me."

"You'll survive."

"I'll be dramatic first."

"Naturally."

We ate straight from the containers because I'd already packed the plates.

"So," Maya said between bites, "are you nervous about the job or... the whole moving-across-the-state thing?"

"Both."

She nodded, waiting.

That was the thing about Maya.

She never rushed silence.

Finally, I admitted, "I know how to be successful here. I know the neighborhoods. I know the market. I know everyone."

"And there?"

"I'll be starting over."

"You're good at starting over."

"No," I said quietly. "I'm good at pretending I'm not scared."

Her expression softened.

"You know what's annoying?"

"What?"

"You're going to walk into that office, reorganize everyone's lives, accidentally become everyone's favorite boss, and call me in six months complaining that you're too busy."

"I would never complain about success."

"You absolutely would."

She wasn't wrong.

After dinner, she helped tape the last few boxes before pulling me into a hug so tight I almost protested.

Almost.

"I'm proud of you," she whispered.

That nearly broke me.

"Don't make this emotional."

"Too late."

I hugged her back.

"I'll visit."

"You'd better."

"And you can stay whenever you want."

"I'm holding you to that."

By the time she left, the apartment echoed with emptiness.

One suitcase.

One carry-on.

A handful of boxes waiting for the movers.

My entire life reduced to labels and bubble wrap.

I wandered onto the tiny balcony overlooking the city that had been home for nearly ten years.

The sun had already dipped below the skyline, painting everything in soft gold before surrendering to night.

Tomorrow, I'd leave.

Tomorrow, I'd start over.