Claimed By The Billionaire Who Knew Me

August POV

The elevator door opened at last.

“Hello—”

The sobbing woman pushed her way in, her hands full with a brown box, yet stabbing furiously at the buttons. I barely managed to slip through the sliding doors, clutching my small back purse to my side.

“Jesus Christ,” I hissed, turning around. That lady was positively distraught, and for a brief second, I could see a thin layer of hate through her red bloodshot eyes.

Focus, August, I thought, slipping my smile back on. This was not the time to be an empath, although all the cells in me were itching to go back to her.

No, this was the time to get my dream job.

Okay.

Maybe that was quite a stretch.

I had just seen this job in the newspapers last night after all. My CV was certainly empty, and everything I knew about myself was handed to me on a platter by my beautiful amazing husband who I absolutely adore, Garett.

So it was not my dream job, but it was a job.

“Hi, I am here for the job interview,” I said, smiling at the receptionist. Her blonde hair was sleeked back, small black frames perched on her nose. Her suit looked very expensive, and when I glanced down at her perfectly pink manicure, I folded my fingertips a bit.

God forbid a girl is late on maintenance.

“Well, you wouldn't make it,” she sighed, turning to her system and typing at a furious speed.

That was encouraging.

“My advice to you would be to take the elevator and follow that lady you just saw sobbing down to the garage and leave in your Camry,” she said, pushing her glasses down.

“I want the job,” I said.

“Yeah well. She is the twelfth assistant he is letting go of this month alone. Do you know how crazy your boss is?”

That was another thing about this job.

You see, I had no idea who I was going to be working for. It was just a simple ad, so I expected maybe a floral artist. A baker. A real estate agent.

When I drove down here this morning, I looked at the sky rise building and told myself I must have made a mistake, taking a wrong turn somewhere.

I didn't.

“Which way should I go?”

“To your left. You should see where other potentials are seated.”

I thanked her and made my way to the left. Sure enough in the pristine white couch, about six women sat down.

“Hi,” I greeted. “I'm August.”

They don't answer me. Their laptops are out on their laps, and they are typing, more focused on that.

“Ok I'll just sit down…” I managed to squeeze myself in-between two of the women.

Their perfumes smelt amazing at least.

Ugh, what to do now, August?

“Are you lost?”

“Pardon?” I blinked.

Her face was immaculate. Perfectly plucked brows, high cheek bones and dark red lips that made her pale skin glow. “I asked, are you lost?”

“No, I am here for the interview.”

“So am I,” she nodded. “Penny Lincoln.”

“August,” I beamed.

“No surname?”

I didn't like to say that name. “August Geoffrey. Sorry, why were you asking if I was lost?”

“Because you don't look dressed for the interview.”

I scanned the women beside me, slowly realizing she was right. They were all slim, scarily the same height and built even from sitting down, their grey suits tailored perfectly to their bodies, all wearing the latest louis button red bottoms.

I tucked my feet in. “I did not know there was a dress code.”

“Well, Ross loves things done a certain way. He might be a play boy, but he has always been a stickler for perfection,” Penny shrugged.

Ross? “Was that the name of our Boss?”

“Yes. My goodness you're really a fish out of water. His name is Ross Ginattoni.”

I knew that name. “You mean the most eligible bachelor in all of New York?” I gasped.

“More like the most ruthless chairman of over seven banks in the entire country.”

Oh my God. Maybe I was actually not meant to be here.

“I just saw the ad in the papers,” I whispered mainly to myself. Two years out of the work force and I just had to work into one of the most influential men in the world’s interview.

My phone rang. A few ladies shot me dark looks, but I ignored them, putting it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hi baby, how is the interview going so far?” Garrett asked. He sounded like he was driving or something.

“It hasn't started yet, but I am here,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice low.

“Have you met your new boss yet?”

“Not yet,” I sighed, running my hand through my head. The soft scar at my forehead that was perfectly covered by my curls felt thicker today. “I'm nervous.”

“You don't have to be, baby,” Garett said. “Just take some deep breaths, and count slowly in your head. You remember what I said?”

A soft smile came to my lips. “That I am something special.”

“Exactly. So you can do this. Alright, I'll see you at home, I'm going to make your favorite.”

“Thank you, Garett,” I said.

“I love you.”

I disconnected the call, sighing. My sweet, nice husband Garett. Everything before the accident was a big black hole, but the two years we spent together nursing me back to health was one of the greatest gifts of my life.

I heard the elevator ping.

Heavy footsteps along the tile, and all the workers had their heads up, eyes wide open in shock. They all had a mesmerized look, and when I glanced at Penny, she was glancing backwards too.

“What is happening…”

Sweet mother of a gun.

Ross Ginattoni looked better in real life. I couldn't really see his face as he walked in, but he was tall. He wore a blue suit, one that did nothing to hide his muscles, his dark hair falling over his face.

“Rebekah,” he said, his voice smooth.

“Mr. Ginattoni,” the receptionist stood up. “I wanted to let you know Anita is gone, and the new candidates are here.”

He nodded. “Have you done what I asked?”

“Yes sir,” Rebekah replied. “Please let's go this way.”

He turned, and this time, I could see him fully. A strong jaw. Olive skin, smooth skin. Curls that escaped being tamed falling across his face, and more importantly, intense green eyes that I could see all the way from where I was seated, our eyes locking immediately.

Mr. Ginattoni stumbled, and stopped. His eyes grew darker, his lips twitching.

“Rebekah,” he said, his voice echoing through the hall.

“Yes sir?”

“Cancel all the interviews,” he instructed. “All except hers.”