The Interview

Rebecca's POV

The office building was a towering glass structure that seemed to scrape the clouds. I had never been inside such a modern, imposing space. The lobby alone was larger than my childhood home—polished marble floors, a massive abstract sculpture in the center, and hushed, professional voices.

I smoothed down my blazer, adjusted the strap of my bag, and walked toward the reception desk. My heels clicked against the marble, a sound that felt foreign and grown-up and completely terrifying.

I had dressed carefully that morning—a fitted black skirt, a cream blouse, and a tailored blazer. I had curled my hair and applied just enough makeup to look polished without looking like I was trying too hard. I had rehearsed my answers in the mirror, practiced my handshake, and tried to shove the memory of Mark's dirty text from my mind.

But the memory wouldn't budge.

"I don't want to know what you're wearing. I want to know what you're not wearing."

I had read that message while sitting at the breakfast table, my father pouring himself a second cup of coffee just inches away. My thighs had pressed together beneath the table. My face had flushed. And I had typed back the truth without hesitation.

"No panties. You told me not to wear them."

It was reckless and dangerous. And it had sent a thrill through me that I still couldn't shake.

Now, standing in this pristine corporate lobby, I realized I had followed his command. I was standing in the middle of a professional interview with nothing but a thin layer of lace between my thighs and the cold, polished air.

"Rebecca Moore?" A woman with sharp eyes and a warm smile appeared from the elevator. "I'm Patricia, the marketing director. We're ready for you."

I followed her into the elevator, my heart hammering. The ride up to the fifteenth floor was silent. Patricia studied my resume, nodding approvingly, while I stared at the glowing floor numbers and tried to breathe.

The interview was better than I had expected. Patricia asked about my degree, my experience, my goals. I answered with surprising confidence, pulling from my college projects and internships. I talked about branding, consumer psychology, and market trends. I smiled, I made eye contact, and I tried not to think about the fact that I was bare beneath my skirt.

"You're impressive," Patricia said, leaning back in her chair. "I've seen a lot of fresh graduates, but you have a natural instinct for this. The position is yours if you want it."

I blinked. "I got it?"

"You got it. We'll send you the offer letter by the end of the day. Welcome to the team, Rebecca."

I thanked her, shook her hand, and walked out of the office in a daze. My heart was soaring. I had done it. I had gotten the job on my own merit, without my father's help, without any strings attached.

I was standing in the elevator, riding back down to the lobby, when my phone buzzed.

I pulled it out, expecting a congratulations text from my father.

Instead, I saw a number I didn't recognize.

Ryan: "Congratulations on the job. I overheard Patricia talking. You're welcome to the team."

I stared at the message, confused. I didn't know anyone named Ryan.

Me: "Thank you? Do I know you?"

Ryan: "You do now. I'm in the marketing department too. I saw you walk into the building this morning and figured I'd introduce myself. I'm the guy who sits two cubicles down from you."

I smiled, tucking my phone into my bag. A friendly coworker. Nothing more. But the message felt warm, normal, and refreshingly innocent.

When I exited the building, the sun hit my face, warm and golden. I stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the glass tower, and let out a long, shaky breath.

I had a job. A real job.

But as I walked toward my car, my phone buzzed again.

Mark: "How was it? Did you get it?"

I stopped walking. My heart clenched. The warmth of the job offer collided with the cold, familiar ache of his attention.

Me: "I got it. I'm officially employed."

Mark: "I knew you would. We should celebrate tonight."

I stared at the screen. Tonight. I had just landed a job that could change my life, and Mark wanted to celebrate it the only way he knew how—in a cheap motel room, with his hands on my body.

I should have told him no. I should have told him I wanted to focus on my career, on building something for myself.

Instead, I typed:

Me: "Same time? Same place?"

Mark: "I'll be waiting. And Becca? Wear that skirt and nothing else."

I bit my lip, a fresh wave of heat rushing through me. I climbed into my car, set my phone on the passenger seat, and drove home.

The afternoon was spent in a blur of excitement and guilt. I told my parents about the job over lunch. My father was beaming, my mother was tearing up. They were so proud of me.

And all I could think about was the motel. The man waiting for me. The way he would strip that skirt off my body and claim me for the third time.

By 8 PM, I was in my car, driving toward Route 9.

The darkness of the road swallowed me whole. My hands were trembling and my thighs were slick with anticipation.

I parked, walked toward Room 14, and knocked.

The door swung open.

Mark stood there, bare-chested, his jeans hanging low on his hips. His eyes darkened the moment he saw me.

"You came," he said.

"I always do."

He grabbed my wrist, pulled me inside, and slammed the door shut. The lock clicked and I melted into his arms, ready to be devoured all over again.