CHAPTER V: Job Interview

 Days had passed, and it was already Monday. I had a surprisingly lovely time yesterday. The people that bumped into me—little Audrey and her mother, Isla—invited me to have lunch with them. The mother insisted that she would treat me because she felt terrible and would not stop feeling bad about what happened unless she made it up to me, so I accepted the invitation.

At first, I felt uneasy. They were complete strangers, and I am not good at socializing with new people, especially when maintaining a strict veil of anonymity. But the kid, Audrey, was too adorable and made sure to break the tension. It was like she knew I was uncomfortable and actively worked to include me. Isla, on the other hand, was sharp, outgoing, and entirely confident—everything I was trying to be but wasn't quite pulling off yet. The entire encounter felt like a breath of fresh air, a moment of normal life I hadn't realized I desperately needed.

“One more touch and ready to go,” I muttered under my breath as I clipped on the last piece of my earrings.

Today was the D-Day—the day of my interview. Even though the appointment was still hours away, at seven-thirty, here I was, standing in front of my mirror at six o’clock in the morning. I woke up painfully early, owing to the high-voltage excitement and the sheer terror of messing up this critical first impression. I had to look meticulous; I had to look like Audrey, the highly capable, independent woman, not Khloe, the rich girl who could buy her way out of trouble.

As I stood in front of my body-length mirror, judging my choice of clothing—a crisp white blouse, a dark pencil skirt, and a structured black blazer—I straightened my spine. I released a deep breath, trying to slow the panicked flutter in my chest, and put on my black leather pumps. They were sensible, professional, and slightly uncomfortable—a perfect metaphor for my current life.

I grabbed my purse, checked my reflection one last time, finalized my overall look, and walked out the bedroom door, leaving the empty, silent luxury apartment behind.

---

I grabbed a yellow taxi downstairs and told the driver the address. On the thirty-minute drive, I tried to imagine what the interview would be like. What kind of questions might they ask? Would the questions be the same as the typical, dull corporate interviews? Please, I prayed, just don't let them ask about my previous employment, or lack thereof.

Before I knew it, the car pulled to a stop. The ride was short, fast, and now I was standing in front of the CazoS Enterprise skyscraper.

“Here you go, Miss. CazoS Enterprise,” the driver said, looking out the side window. I followed his gaze and stared in total awe. Wow. The building was a monolith of dark glass and chrome, easily seventy or eighty stories high, dwarfing the surrounding architecture. Why was I surprised? Sebastian Schulz would, of course, occupy a castle.

The driver cleared his throat, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as he expectantly stared at me through the rear-view mirror.

“Oh, I am sorry! Here you go! Thank you for the ride.” I handed him the taxi fare with an apologetic smile and got out of the car. The yellow cab sped off as I stood at the entrance, feeling impossibly small.

Sighing, I straightened my blazer one more time, taking a fortifying breath of the cold New York air, and strode toward the building. As I got closer, the golden colored bold letters of "CazoS Enterprise" were visibly engraved above the double mirror door entrance.

Standing on both sides of the doors were two massive, muscular men in black suits who checked every person entering. Security guards, I presumed—and serious ones, at that. I walked past them after getting myself checked with the security wand and walked toward the front desk.

A woman sat at the desk, her blonde hair tied neatly in a severe bun, a light red lipstick applied to her thin lips. Her work attire was similar to the other employees—clean, sharp, and entirely intimidating. A shiny silver name tag pinned above her left breast read: Zoey Monroe. She was busy typing away on the computer, oblivious to my arrival.

Clearing my throat seemed to get her attention, and she finally looked up. I felt her professional gaze rake over me, from my shoes to my hair, before she offered me a polite, but practiced, smile.

“Hello, what can I do for you?” the woman asked, her voice smooth.

“Hi, I am Audrey Mcfeller, and I have an appointment at seven-thirty.” I purposefully used the last name from my forged documents.

As soon as she heard me say my name, her face lit up with a more genuine, albeit still professional, smile. “Oh! Right! You are here for the position of the secretary. My name is Zoey, and Liam here will be the one to escort you.”

“Come this way, Miss,” Liam said. I hadn't noticed him. He was a tall, kind-faced security guard who stepped out from behind a discreet doorway, extending his hand and motioning for me to follow him.

Following him, I tried to engage in a small talk, learning that he had been working here for five years. The man was friendly enough and made sure to distract me because my nervousness had clearly caught his attention; I was slightly trembling.

“Well, this is it. I am not allowed to go inside because only the interviewees are allowed to go in. All you have to do is take that separate, unmarked elevator, and it will lead you to Mrs. Proy. I wish you all the best, Ms. Mcfeller.” With a final, encouraging nod, he turned around and walked back toward the main entrance.

Taking a deep, shaky breath and running a hand through my hair one last time, I walked over to the designated elevator. As I waited, the air suddenly thickened. I heard heavy, sharp footsteps rapidly heading in my direction, and they stopped right beside me.

Ding!

The elevator doors slowly slid open. I was just about to take a step inside, focusing on my interview, when a sound—a dismissive, sharp clearing of a throat—made me freeze.

“Ahem!”

I turned around and found a furious looking man standing there, glaring at me with hard, blazing eyes. He looked to be in his late twenties, dressed in a flawless, bespoke black suit with a matching tie and dress shoes. I could feel the authority radiating off him, thick and oppressive. He had light brown hair that was neatly gelled back, and his arms were crossed over his broad chest, like a powerful ruler daring someone to challenge him.

Why was this man so furious? I was utterly confused.

“Get out of my way,” he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He uncrossed his arms and pointed a dismissive finger at his chest. “Do you know whose space you’re invading?”

I stared at him, my eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry, no. And should I?” I asked, refusing to back down from the raw aggression.

The man’s eyes narrowed, and I could swear his fury intensified. “Excuse me!?” he roared. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. The veins in his neck bulged, and I could almost imagine steam escaping from his ears and nostrils. He was a pressure cooker about to explode.

Just as I was about to ask him what the heck he was angry about, the reason for my presence here slammed into my mind. The interview! Shoot! I was wasting time on a maniac.

“I am sorry to disturb you, but I have to get going,” I said, turning my attention back to the elevator, my heart pounding.

The doors, during our confrontation, had closed. When did the doors close? Oh right! You only have seconds to enter before they close again. I quickly pressed the elevator button once again, willing it to open.

But as I was about to step inside, a lightning-fast movement occurred. He grabbed my wrist—his fingers like steel bands—and forced me to face him again. “Take the next one. I don’t share this space.”

“Dude, that hurts! Let go!” I wrenched my wrist free from his painful grasp, wincing at the force.

“Did you just call me dude!?” His jaw was set, and his eyes were full of lethal astonishment that I dared challenge him.

I ignored him entirely. I rushed into the now-open elevator, spinning around, and repeatedly slammed the "close" button in a frantic hurry. I prayed the doors would work faster. The doors slid shut just as I saw his enraged face take a step toward me.

The top floor button lit up as the elevator began its ascent, leaving the furious man behind. This was it. I was late, I was shaking, and I had just made a powerful enemy on my first day. So help me God.