Chapter 3

August’s POV

I watched him storm into his office, the large wooden door slamming behind him. Everyone was silent, the room in a kind of weird pause.

“Well,” I grabbed my purse. “It seems you were right, Penny. I'm going to go now.”

“No,” Rebekah’s sharp voice cut through. “You are staying.”

I blinked.

“I am.”

“Alright ladies,” Rebekah said, turning to the other women. “You heard the boss, chop chop.”

Penny’s mouth dropped open as she turned to me. “You?” She shrieked.

Girl, I felt the same.

“Please sit down, miss…”

“It's Mrs, actually,” I smiled, correcting Rebekah. “Mrs. Geoffrey.”

Rebekahcs lips thinned. “Right, August. Just sit down while I get them outside please.”

It took her more than twenty minutes to do that, and by the time she was done, I had started trembling, and regretting my decision.

“Oh I don't think I'm going to stay,” I said suddenly standing up. “This might be a mistake.”

“He has already chosen you, breathe.”.

How could I breathe? How could a look shared with one man for less than a minute feel like a sword being stabbed over and over in my chest?

Okay, August, breathe. I closed my eyes and gulped deep breaths of air through my nose.

“Feel better?”

“No,” I croaked. “Why did he send everyone else and only I am getting an interview?”

“Mr. Ginattoni is a well, peculiar man. Follow me.”

Her heels clicked against the times as we walked, her hips swaying softly. Employees' eyes peeked out from their tables, looking for a glimpse of the girl that stayed.

“Just ignore them,” Rebekah said. “They look at everyone that same way.”

We got to the front of the big doors. I glanced down at my feet, the open toed sandals I chose to wear seeming like the most horrible choice I could ever make.

“Just be yourself.”

I glanced up at Rebekah. “Ross is not as frightening as people make him sound, so just be yourself.”

I would have to hide my trembling hands then. “Okay.”

I pushed open the door, and stepped into the office. The first thing I noticed was the smell. It smelt so clean, like it was some imported air or some shit. Like we were at the beach.

I expected gold. Opulence. A display of wealth that immediately, one would know they were in close contact with a billionaire.

His office was nothing like that.

The room was painted with a dark blue, almost like it was midnight. The lights were on, but not enough to blind someone's eyes. The fall to ceiling windows were the least attractive things, a long custom made shelf holding books stood at one edge of the wall. There were no pictures in the long mahogany desk in the center of the room, a large monitor screen on it.

I could see a small bar, made in the same shade as the table and the shelf, then a small sitting area with two couches facing each other and a small coffee table between them. The colours blended with each other. The room looked more like a fancy five star hotel where billionaires patronized.

Everything was beautiful. Perfect, even.

Yet, it lacked human touch. My gaze drifted towards the man standing behind the desk, his hand folded behind him as he looked at the city line. He had taken off his jacket, revealing a sky blue shirt and broad, broad shoulders.

I cleared my throat. “I am here for the interview,” I managed to whisper.

He turned his head slightly to the side.

“Who are you?”

Pardon? Who was I? Maybe this was a mistake, and I should just leave, before it gets too—

My eyes opened wider. One minute he was standing in front of the glass, the next, he was in front of me, his hands coming up and trapping me. My back hit the door and I let out a little squeak, the back of my skirt almost tripping me.

He stood over , his eyes daring back and forth, studying my face with an intense look. This was wrong, I knew that, but I looked up, shocked at how close he was.

He was leaning down. Slowly, one of his hands came down, and I felt him lightly trace my cheeks.

“Impossible,” he said more to himself, “this is impossible.”

I swallowed nervously. “Umm, sir?”

His touch was so soft, like a painter trying to create art, but I was the recipient of it. My stomach grew tighter, my legs shaking.

“August…”

Was that my name?

I looked into his glossy eyes. “I never told you my name.”

His jaw clenched, the walls built back. He took a step backwards. “My apologies,” he said, his voice cold as he crossed the room, and sat down behind the desk.

“Please sit.”

I did that, clutching my resume like it was my life itself. How did he know my name?

His hands were flat against the desk and a small silver light glinted on his left hand. So he was married, or was that just for show?

Ugh. “Thank you so much for giving me this opportunity, I was so shocked when you did.”

“Your resume,” he said, stretching his hands out. I handed my documents over to him, biting the inner corner of my lips.

“Your name is August Geoffrey?” He mumbled.

“Yes. Just August is fine,” I muttered, twirling my hands around in my laps.

“Would you be able to handle how taxing this job is, August?” His eyes net mine again, and I almost turned to goo.

“I think so,” I replied.

“Great then,” he snapped the documents. “You are hired.”

Just like that? “Do you not have any questions for me?”

“No.”

“Oh,” I gasped. I was expecting the interview to be something of an intellectual debate.

“I can see that answer disappoints you,” Ross said, sitting back in his chair.

“Well, more like it confuses me. I thought I was going to be drilled, and it seems the job is just falling on a platter on my lips.”

The corner of his lips tugged up. “Is that so?”

Shit. “Maybe I should—”

“Let's have a proper interview then,” he didn't open my documents, instead, he leaned forward, his entire upper body on the desk. “What did you major in, marketing?”

Yes, how did he know that? “Yes, at Columbia.”

“You went to Yale afterwards?”

Garrett told me I couldn't get in. “No, I tried but I couldn't get in.”

His eyes narrowed. “I can see you went there on your resume.”

That made no sense. Plus, he was not reading from it.

“Well I guess.”

His brow went up. “You guess?”

On the first day of a potential job, I shouldn't be telling my boss that I lost my memories. “I went to Yale.”

“Awesome then,” he sat up. “Rebekah would help you sign the papers. Thank you, August.”

I stood up and stretched my hands, taking the time from him. “Likewise, Mr. Ginattoni.”

“Just Ross.”

Hell no. I turned around, fleeing the office. As I walked down the hall, I opened the CV, confused about what he said.

There was no where it said I attended Yale.