Chapter 1: Matchmaking, Mayhem, and Memories

I traveled back to when my parents were young. Back then, my dad was smack in the middle of his 'chasing after his future wife and getting burned' phase—classic Dad, really.

It was surreal, honestly—like stepping into an old family photo, except everyone in it was still figuring themselves out. The city smell—coffee and exhaust—hit me right away, and for a second, I just stopped, surprised at how the world felt a little less complicated. Still, my dad's love life? Anything but.

He didn’t recognize me. Not a hint. Ouch. I could've been anyone—his neighbor's kid, a lost intern, or, as it happened, just another face in the building.

All he wanted was for me to help him find a wife.

As if matchmaking was something you could outsource to the cleaning staff. But hey, stranger things have happened. Still, he was desperate, and desperation makes people weird.

New day. Back to the grind—another morning inside one of the world’s top companies, but that’s just the surface.

That’s what I was thinking as I stood in front of the janitor’s closet window, trying not to let the nerves get to me.

The morning sunlight hit the smudged glass, and for a second, I could see the city skyline stretching out beyond the building—reminding me just how high up I was, and how far down I'd fallen from my old life. My sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as I checked my supplies, wondering if anyone ever really noticed the people behind the scenes.

I weaved my way through a crowd of impeccably dressed assistants and steely-eyed execs, dragging my cleaning cart straight to the CEO’s office. My heart thudded, but I kept my head down.

The hallway buzzed with the kind of nervous energy you only find in places where everyone’s chasing a promotion. I kept my head low, pretending not to hear the whispered gossip about Carter’s latest meltdown, even though I wanted to eavesdrop.

Mr. Carter was the hardest to please.

His office always smelled faintly of cedar and expensive cologne, and his standards were legendary. Some people said he could spot a missed dust bunny from across the room—and I believed it.

Start by sweeping his floor. Deep breath. Okay, here goes nothing.

Crap, Mr. Carter got in early today.

He was already pacing, suit jacket slung over his shoulder, a storm brewing on his face. My heart hammered as I tried to look invisible, blending into the beige walls. Please, universe, let me pass through unnoticed.

As I kept my head down and worked, I heard his voice.

“She’s been gone three days and you’re telling me you still can’t find out where she is?”

The words cut through the air, sharp as broken glass. Even the plants seemed to wilt a little—yikes.

It felt like the whole office shrank around me.

The tension was thick enough to choke on. I moved slower, hoping nobody would notice me. Maybe if I moved slow enough, I’d just disappear.

“He can’t see me, he can’t see me,” I muttered to myself, half-prayer, half-plea.

I tried to make myself small, clutching the broom like a lifeline. Not today, please.

There was a long hair on the floor.

Before I bent down, I absentmindedly handed him the broom. Whoops.

My mind was running on autopilot—just trying to get through the morning. I barely registered what I was doing until it was too late. Too late now.

Rumor has it, when people are on the phone, they’ll take whatever you hand them.

It’s true, especially if they’re distracted. I’d seen people sign forms, take coffee, even accept a stapler mid-rant. Nobody ever questions the cleaning crew.

So when the executive assistant walked in, she saw the usually aloof, untouchable Mr. Carter holding a broom while talking on the phone.

The look on her face was priceless—like she’d just walked in on the president vacuuming the Oval Office. For a second, nobody moved. Time froze.

All three faces went blank.

The silence hung heavy, and I felt sweat bead on my forehead. Please, someone blink.

The assistant reacted fast, snatching the broom away in a flash.

She didn’t miss a beat, swooping in like a hawk. The broom vanished and so did my panic, just a little. That’s what you call professional.

Saved my job. I let out a tiny sigh of relief, trying not to grin. Whew—dodged a bullet there.

That was close. Almost got fired by my own dad. That would be a story.

Though, to be fair, Mr. Carter wasn’t married or anything yet at this point.

So even if his grown daughter stood in front of him, he’d have no way to recognize her. I was just another face in the crowd.

My real name is Lila Carter, but everyone calls me Lily now. For now, my cover is a cleaner who came to New York for work. Nobody suspects a thing.

I’d practiced the accent and the story—small-town girl, big dreams, just trying to make rent. It helped me slip through the cracks. I was good at hiding.

Earning money with my own hands isn’t shameful. Hey, honest work is honest work.

I told myself that every day. There’s something honest about scrubbing floors, even if you’re secretly the company’s lost heir.

Besides, earning money from my own family’s company means keeping the profits in the family. Not exactly the trust fund life, but still.

It was almost poetic—like some kind of twisted family trust fund with extra elbow grease. Guess this is what they call character building.

If it wasn’t for all this time-travel nonsense, I’d probably be the heir here.

But, well, here I am. What can you do?

Just not the best timing.