The Interview

Bianca's phone rang at seven in the morning.

She jerked awake, heart pounding, and fumbled for it on her nightstand. Unknown number. She answered anyway—these days, every call could be the hospital.

"Is this Bianca Richardson?" A woman's voice, crisp and professional.

"Yes, this is she."

"I'm calling from Luxe Noir Fashion House regarding your application for the personal assistant position. Ms. Adams would like to interview you today at ten o'clock. Are you available?"

Bianca sat up so fast her head spun. "Yes. Absolutely. I'll be there."

"Excellent. Please arrive at the main reception on the fortieth floor. Dress professionally." A pause. "Ms. Adams values punctuality."

The line went dead.

Bianca stared at her phone. Ten o'clock. That gave her less than three hours to shower, figure out what "professionally" meant when she owned exactly two dresses that weren't covered in coffee stains, and get across the city to the fashion district.

She threw off her blankets and ran for the shower.

---

The Luxe Noir building was even more intimidating in person than in photographs.

Bianca stood on the sidewalk at nine forty-five, craning her neck to see the top of the black glass tower that seemed to pierce the clouds. Gold trim ran up the sides like veins of precious metal. The revolving doors at the entrance were spotless, reflecting the morning sun in blinding flashes.

People streamed in and out—beautiful people wearing clothes that probably cost more than Bianca's car. A woman in a white pantsuit and sunglasses that screamed designer swept past, trailing expensive perfume. A man in a three-piece suit talked rapidly into his phone about Milan and fashion week and profit margins.

Bianca looked down at her own outfit—a simple black dress she'd worn to her high school graduation and borrowed heels from Sophie that pinched her toes. She felt like a sparrow that had accidentally flown into a peacock convention.

But she'd come this far. Her mother's face flashed in her mind—yellow-tinged and exhausted, hooked up to dialysis machines.

Bianca pushed through the revolving doors.

The lobby took her breath away. The floor was polished black marble that reflected everything like a dark mirror. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, each piece catching light and throwing rainbows across the walls. Sleek black furniture formed conversation areas where impossibly tall models perched like exotic birds.

"Can I help you?" The receptionist looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine—sharp cheekbones, perfect makeup, hair in an elegant twist.

"I have an interview with Ms. Adams at ten." Bianca's voice came out smaller than she intended. "Bianca Richardson."

The receptionist's perfectly shaped eyebrows rose slightly as she checked her computer. "Ah, yes. Take the executive elevator to the fortieth floor. It's the last door at the end of the hall. You can't miss it."

The elevator ride seemed to last forever. Bianca watched the floor numbers climb while her stomach did somersaults. Thirty-two. Thirty-five. Thirty-eight.

What was she doing here? She had no fashion experience. No college degree. Nothing that would impress someone who ran a company like this.

But fifteen thousand dollars a month. Her mother's life.

The elevator chimed. Fortieth floor.

The doors opened onto a hallway that looked nothing like the sleek lobby below. Here, everything was warm and luxurious—cream-colored walls, abstract paintings that probably cost more than a car, fresh white roses in crystal vases on marble tables.

At the end of the hall stood a set of double doors in dark wood with gold handles.

Bianca walked toward them, her borrowed heels clicking too loudly on the marble floor. She raised her hand to knock, hesitated, then knocked firmly. Three times.

"Come in."

The voice was smooth, cultured, with an edge of command that made Bianca's hand move to the handle before she consciously decided to obey.

She opened the door and stepped inside.

The office was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city skyline. A massive desk dominated the center of the room—not cluttered with papers, but clean and organized with just a laptop, a tablet, and a crystal paperweight. Behind the desk sat a leather chair, currently facing the windows.

"Close the door, please."

Bianca did, her heart hammering.

The chair swiveled around.

Anna Adams was the most striking woman Bianca had ever seen in person. She had dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, sharp cheekbones, and eyes so dark they were almost black. She wore a white silk blouse and a black pencil skirt that probably cost more than Bianca made in a month at Coffee Corner. Everything about her screamed power and control.

"Sit." Anna gestured to one of two chairs facing her desk.

Bianca sat, clutching her purse in her lap.

Anna picked up a tablet and scrolled through it—presumably Bianca's application. The silence stretched. Bianca counted her own heartbeats. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty.

Finally, Anna looked up.

"Coffee Corner," she said. "Three years as a barista."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And before that, grocery store cashier."

"Yes, ma'am."

"No college degree. No administrative experience." Anna set down the tablet. "Tell me why I should hire you for a position that typically requires a bachelor's degree and five years of experience in the fashion industry."

This was it. The moment to sell herself or lose everything.

Bianca took a breath. "I won't lie to you, Ms. Adams. I don't have fashion experience. I don't have a degree. But I'm one of the hardest workers you'll ever meet. At Coffee Corner, I never missed a shift in three years. I learned everyone's regular orders, managed inventory, trained new employees. I can learn fast, I pay attention to details, and I don't quit when things get hard."

Anna's expression didn't change. "Why do you want this job?"

The honest answer sat on Bianca's tongue—*because my mother is dying and I need money desperately*. But something told her that desperation wouldn't impress this woman.

"I want a career, not just a job," Bianca said instead. "I want to work somewhere that challenges me, where I can grow. And I want to work for someone I can learn from."

"Flattery?" A hint of amusement touched Anna's lips.

"Honesty." Bianca met her eyes. "I looked up your company last night. You built Luxe Noir from nothing ten years ago. Now you're one of the top fashion houses in the country. That doesn't happen by accident. That takes vision and incredible work ethic. Those are things I want to learn."

Anna leaned back in her chair, studying Bianca with an intensity that made her want to squirm. But Bianca held still, held eye contact, refused to look away first.

"Most people who sit in that chair lie to me," Anna said finally. "They pretend they know more than they do, make up experience, tell me what they think I want to hear. You're either very honest or very clever."

"I'm honest, Ms. Adams. I can't afford to waste your time or mine with lies."

Something flickered in Anna's dark eyes. Interest, maybe. Or calculation.

"The position requires long hours," Anna said. "Early mornings, late nights, sometimes weekends. I need someone available essentially whenever I need them. Can you commit to that?"

"Yes."

"You'd be handling my personal schedule, my business calendar, screening calls, attending meetings, managing correspondence. You'd know details about my life and my company that are strictly confidential. Discretion is non-negotiable."

"I understand."

"There will be travel. Fashion shows, business trips, sometimes internationally. You'd need a passport."

"I have one." Bianca didn't mention it had been issued five years ago and never used.

Anna stood and walked to the window, her back to Bianca. The silence returned, heavier this time. Bianca watched the set of Anna's shoulders, trying to read her body language and finding nothing.

When Anna turned around, her expression was unreadable.

"You're not what I expected," she said.

Bianca's stomach dropped. That sounded like a rejection. "I know I'm not the typical candidate—"

"I didn't say that was a bad thing." Anna walked back to her desk but didn't sit. Instead, she perched on the edge, closer to Bianca now. Close enough that Bianca could smell her perfume—something expensive and subtle that made her think of dark roses and winter nights.

"I've interviewed fifteen people for this position," Anna continued. "All of them had impressive resumes. All of them said exactly what they thought I wanted to hear. And all of them bored me within five minutes."

Bianca's heart started beating faster.

"You're honest. Raw. You need this job—I can see that in your eyes. But you're not groveling or begging. You're offering value." Anna tilted her head. "That interests me."

"Does that mean—"

"It means I want to see you again." Anna moved back to her chair and pulled up her calendar on the tablet. "Tomorrow, same time. Consider it a second interview. I'll have some scenarios for you to work through, see how you think on your feet."

Relief flooded through Bianca so intensely she felt lightheaded. Not hired yet, but not rejected either. Still in the running.

"Thank you, Ms. Adams. I'll be here."

"Good." Anna's gaze locked onto hers. "And Bianca? Tomorrow, be prepared to show me who you really are. Not who you think I want you to be."

The way she said it made something flutter in Bianca's chest. Not nervousness exactly, but something else. Something she couldn't quite name.

"I will," Bianca said.

Anna smiled—a small, mysterious curve of her lips that somehow felt dangerous.

"I'm counting on it."