6. Reality Sets In

Samantha's POV

"So." The man in the grey suit flips a page. "You studied business administration, graduated with decent marks." He pauses. "And then... nothing for three years."

I clasp my hands on the table. Three pairs of eyes across from me that have already decided something before I opened my mouth.

"I was an office assistant as you can see there, before I... I... managed personal affairs for... my life was..." I have forgotten everything I prepared for this question I very much expected. Every interview I have attended in the last three weeks all asked the same thing: why the three year gap?

"Miss Gregory, I'd appreciate it if you can be more coherent. You are not the only one in line for this role. Now tell us what made you leave your errand staff role and what kind of personal matter takes three years," the thin woman says sternly, eyeing me with eyes that only seemed to remind me of Georgia.

"Yes, I will. Life happened but I kept up with-"

"What. Kind. Of. Personal. Matters. Take. Three, Years?"

My throat tightens. "I was... it was a difficult period. A marriage, and then-"

"So you left the workforce to be a housewife," she finishes flatly.

"I wouldn't characterize it that way. I was still-"

"Miss Gregory." The third interviewer, who hasn't spoken until now, looks up from his phone. "We're looking for someone who's been active in the industry. Do you understand what I mean by that? Whatever experience you had, it's three years old now. The industry has changed so much in three years."

The room tilts slightly. I move my hands under the table and press my palms flat on my thighs.

"I understand that, but I've been keeping myself updated. I took two certifications," I lie, "and I'm confident that with a short adjustment period I can—" I stop talking as my stomach does a full roll.

Oh God. Please... not now that I was finally sounding convincing.

"Miss Gregory?"

The twist becomes a lurch. Heat climbs up my throat too fast, and I know my prayer wasn't answered. I press two fingers to my lips and try controlling my breathing through my nose. The fluorescent light above me hums too loudly. The grey-suited man's tie is suddenly too bright a pattern and I cannot look at it.

"Excuse me, restroom-"

I push back from the chair and turn toward the door but something is wrong with my legs and I don't make it far enough.

The sound that follows is awful. The silence after it is even worse. I'm hunched over, one hand braced on the wall, and I hear chairs push back sharply behind me.

"Oh my God."

"What the hell?"

"Ew! Security!"

I straighten up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My eyes are burning. The carpet in front of me is ruined and all three of them are pressed back against the far wall like I might do it again.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I—"

"You better clean that shit up." The woman's voice has lost every drop of its professional courtesy. "We do not pay our cleaners to clean up other people's vomit."

"Someone call the front desk," the grey-suited man says, already moving toward the second exit.

"What a way to ruin my morning," the third one mutters but loud enough to my hearing.

A security guard appears in minutes. He doesn't look at me with sympathy but holds out a mop and a bucket, arm extended like he'd rather not get closer than necessary.

"They said you made the mess. Clean up."

So I clean it on my knees on the conference room floor while the three interviewers stand in the hallway and speak in low voices I can still half hear. Words like 'unprofessional' and 'why was she even shortlisted' and 'she must have cheated on the assessment test.'

I don't need a soothsayer to tell me in definitely not getting the job. I press myself into the corner of the elevator and let myself cry all the way down because it's the only space with no one in it.

When the doors open at the ground floor I stop, square my shoulders and walk out.

But when I enter my mold-filled studio, the tears return.

Forty-seven dollars is all I have left, and the number doesn't change no matter how many times my fingers move through the notes and coins.

It's been three weeks since I left Damian and every interview I've attended has been a disaster. Not like I throw up at every single one but something always happens.

The last interviewer called me unkempt.

The one before that said I wasn't sexy enough for a marketing role.

There was one that went extremely well I felt happiness for the first time in weeks... until I received a rejection email the next day, saying "... moving on with more qualified candidates."

What do I do?

I move my palm to my belly and rub it gently. One name flashes in my head. The moment I call him, he'd drop everything, take the next bus to Manhattan and wrap his jacket around me before I finish saying hello.

I remember telling him I was going to marry Damian Sterling, and the way his whole face went still.

"Sam." He set his cup down. "Those families don't marry for love."

"He loves me, and I love him so much. Please have faith in me and give our love a chance to grow."

Well, this is really happening. This baby is real, and it is coming, with or without Damian. What are you going to do, Samantha.

I remain on the floor with that thought until the walls start to feel too close. I go to the park and sit on a bench and let myself think the thought I shouldn't be thinking.

Bringing a child into this feels like cruelty aimed at someone who never asked to be here.

A toddler wanders over from the next bench, round-faced and completely serious.

"Here!" She holds out a crumpled brown leaf with both hands, offering it like it's something precious.

I take it and watch as she runs back to her mother, satisfied.

"There's got to be another way out."

***

I used three days to talk myself into something different from the stupid thought I got at the park. I keep coming back to Damian's face when the pen pressed into his hand, the hurt underneath the pride. I think about the divorce papers already sitting in that drawer, prepared before I ever asked for one.

Maybe we both fell for it. Georgia laid the whole thing out and we walked right in.

Maybe if I stand in front of him and say "I'm pregnant. I need you. I think you still need me" plainly, that'd be enough to break through.

I rehearse it until it sounds like the truth. I remember the rising tears in his eyes that morning as I packed my things.

There's still something salvageable between us... right?

Today, the fourth day, I put on the best outfit I still own and take the bus to Sterling Empire headquarters. The security guard knows my face, even though I've only been here a few times. Georgia never liked me coming to HQ, and Damian always said I'd distract him from work if I'm around him in office.

But still the guard won't let me through.

"You're not on the approved visitor list, ma'am."

"You know me," I say quietly. "I'm Damian's-"

"Ex-wife, ma'am. I'm sorry."

I keep my voice low while reasoning carefully with him, when a familiar laugh cuts through from behind me.

Then a voice that turns my stomach.

"Samantha?"

Georgia and Victoria step out of the building side by side. Georgia's expression moves through surprise and settles into something like amusement. Victoria's mocking smile is immediate.

Georgia looks me over slowly, head to toe, taking her time.

"What a strange choice, coming here." She tilts her head. "Here to beg for Damian's attention?"