Never Meant to Share

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‎My steps slowed to a stop outside the Moretti Corporation building.

‎The towering glass windows caught the morning sunlight, throwing bright reflections across the pavement. Muffled conversation filled the lobby as employees stepped in and out of the building.

‎I pulled my interview folder from my backpack for one last look before entering.

‎My palm clenched around it before my grip loosened.

‎“Most people here are probably wearing shirts worth my monthly rent.” A dry laugh escaped me.

‎“You can do this, Elias,” I muttered, curling my fist in a silent attempt to encourage myself.

‎I pushed against the revolving door and stepped inside. Several workers strode past, all dressed in tailored clothes.

‎My plain white shirt seemed to stand out painfully in the crowd. I glanced down at my wrist to check the time.

‎Relief eased the knot in my chest. I wasn't late.

‎I lowered my gaze to slip the interview folder back into my bag.

‎Someone walked straight into me.

‎THUD!

‎A solid shoulder slammed against mine before I could react.

‎The force sent me and the folder in my hands flying. Sheets of paper fluttered across the expensive marble floor like startled birds as I stumbled, my tailbone striking the floor.

‎"Damn it."

‎I dropped to my knees, hastily gathering my résumé and certificates before anyone could step on them. One page slid to a stop beside a pair of polished leather shoes.

‎I reached for it, then looked up.

‎A broad chest.

‎A flawless dark suit.

‎A pair of cold, unreadable eyes looking down at me.

‎For a moment the air seemed frozen. 

‎Neither of us spoke. 

‎I pushed myself upright, wincing as pain shot through my tailbone.

‎The man didn't apologize.

‎He simply stared down at me as though nothing had happened.

‎Irritation flared.

‎"Excuse me," I said sharply, jabbing a finger toward the stranger's chest. "The least you could do is apologize."

‎Heads turned toward us as the steady clatter of keyboards gradually faded. The stranger didn't even flinch. He simply held my gaze, and for a heartbeat, the entire lobby seemed to fall silent.

‎The man behind him stepped forward. 

‎“Watch your mouth.” 

‎His voice carried across the lobby, firm enough to silence the whispers around us.

‎I raised an eyebrow.

‎"Or what?" I asked. "You'll have me thrown out for expecting basic manners?"

‎The bodyguard's jaw tightened as he started toward me.

‎Before he could take another step, the stranger lifted a hand. He stopped immediately.

‎I snorted under my breath and turned away.

‎"Some people really think the world revolves around them," I muttered just loud enough for him to hear.

‎---

‎“Interesting.”

‎The stranger's lips curled up almost imperceptibly.

‎Behind him, his bodyguard looked even more stunned by the stranger's smile.

‎---

‎I quickened my pace as the reception desk came into view.

‎The receptionist looked up from her desk before offering a warm smile that eased some of the tension coiled inside me.

‎“Good morning. Who are you here to see?”

‎“I’m here for the interview.”

‎The words left my mouth softer than I expected.

‎“Oh, I see, please wait a bit,” she said as she picked up the telecom.

‎The other receptionist stared at my shirt before glancing at my face, a hint of disdain in her expression.

‎My hands instinctively moved to smooth my shirt before I muttered something under my breath.

‎Minutes crawled by.

‎I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to ignore the dull ache creeping into my calves.

‎“I meant—.”

‎“Mr. Hart.”

‎I spun to see a middle-aged man flashing a smile at me. I swallowed the words that had almost slipped out and simply nodded.

‎“Follow me.”

‎The middle-aged man turned to walk into the hallway.

‎I trailed after him then paused before glancing back at the kind receptionist and giving her a warm smile.

‎I stepped into the hallway and nearly forgot to breathe.

‎Large crystal chandeliers spilled warm light across the walls, where expensive paintings hung in perfect symmetry.

‎Every corner screamed wealth—the kind I'd only ever seen on TV.

‎My fingers curled around the strap of my worn-out canvas backpack.

‎Don’t stare.

‎I forced my gaze forward, but it kept wandering.

‎A single vase sitting on a carved pedestal probably cost more than a year's rent.

‎“This is just an interview,” I whispered under my breath.

‎I drew in a shallow breath, held it for a second, then let it out.

‎My palms were damp, but I wiped them against my trousers.

‎You need this job.

‎The reminder steadied me just enough to keep moving.

‎The middle-aged man stopped in front of a towering mahogany door.

‎My footsteps died with his.

‎The doors were massive, the wood gleamed beneath the chandelier lights, with intricate gold handles that looked as though they belonged in a palace rather than an office.

‎Whatever lay beyond them suddenly felt more intimidating than the interview itself.

‎Then he turned to me.

‎“Mr. Moretti is expecting you. Go on in.”

‎I swallowed hard.

‎My fingers tightened around the strap of my backpack as my heartbeat pounded against my ribs.

‎This is it.

‎I took a deep breath, straightened my shoulders, and reached for the cold brass handle before gently pushing the door open. I stepped into the office, the heavy doors closing softly behind me.

‎The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows.

‎A man sat behind the expansive wooden desk, his high-backed leather chair turned toward the skyline. Only the back of his neatly tailored suit was visible.

‎I hesitated.

‎“Good morning, sir,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

‎For a moment, there was only silence.

‎Then the chair turned.

‎The man leaned back, his piercing gray eyes settling on me with calm authority.

‎My breath caught.

‎A familiar face stared back at me.

‎It was him.

‎The man from the lobby.

‎My stomach lurched.

‎No way...

‎Please don't tell me...

‎The man rested his chin against one hand.

‎“Mr. Hart.”

‎His lips curved into the faintest smile.

‎“Tell me... does the world still revolve around me?”

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