CHAPTER VI: Job Interview Part Two

“Ms. Mcfeller?” asked the woman whom I presumed was Mrs. Proy.

I almost did not see her. She had a petite figure; I was almost a head taller than she was. She had a stern, professional expression on her face. Her black-grey hair was tied neatly in a severe bun. She looked around in her mid-fifties, radiating competence.

“That is me,” I replied quickly, raising my right hand.

“You are late.” She stated, looking pointedly at her wrist watch as she walked toward an office. I immediately followed behind her, knowing all too well that I was precisely late, which was entirely because of a jerk who was selfish enough to refuse to share an elevator.

Does he even own it?!

I swore internally: If I lost this job interview, I was going to hunt him down and beat the daylights out of him.

“This is just an interview, and you are already late, Ms. Mcfeller. Even though you have not gotten the job yet, it is common knowledge to not be tardy for things like this. All of us are busy, I understand that, but you must know how to manage your time. Our employees are expected to be at least five to ten minutes early and never late. If you pass my interview, let me make this clear: do not be late again. Your boss, the Chief Executive, hates tardiness. He will fire you immediately.” Mrs. Proy delivered the warning without blinking, her eyes steady.

I clearly understood the implication—the CazoS environment was unforgiving. “I apologize for being late. It will not happen again,” I promised, still walking toward her office, the memory of the selfish man burning in my mind.

As we got closer, I saw a polished brass nameplate nailed neatly on the door that read: Linda Proy, Human Resources Manager. She opened the door and let me in first before stepping inside and shutting the door closed.

Her office was functional and decent. A desktop computer sat on her desk along with an office telephone. A large, dark leather couch sat near the door with a matching coffee table.

She motioned to the seat in front of her for me to sit down before continuing, “I will get straight to the point since we are out of time. Why do you need this job?” She asked, watching me intently, waiting for a response that would tell her if I was worth the minimal time I had left.

I hesitated for a few seconds. Should I tell her the truth? That I needed to disappear? “Long story short, I just moved into this town, and I need a decent job that pays fairly,” I explained, deliberately omitting anything that would invite pity or, worse, suspicion. I needed them to believe I was a run-of-the-mill applicant.

Mrs. Proy was silent for a couple of minutes, letting the simple information process in her mind, her expression unreadable, before she finally looked up with a small, professional smile.

“Okay. You passed this procedure. All you need to do now is to go to the room three doors away from this office and wait for your turn for the final assessment.” Mrs. Proy's words caused a genuine, wide smile to etch onto my face. I stood up quickly, grabbing her hand and shaking it enthusiastically.

“Oh my God! Thank you so much!” I beamed while shaking her hand, which she gladly returned, her smile widening slightly.

“You are welcome, dear. Good luck.” she said.

With another sincere thank you, I walked outside her office and headed to the room she was talking about. Muttering a quick prayer in my head, I opened the door knob. My eyes instantly scanned the room, and I swear I almost had my mouth hang wide open: there was a terrifying number of applicants—at least a hundred—all applying for the exact same position.

Should I back out? My heart sank as I saw the sheer volume of competition. No. I need this.

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“Ms. Mcfeller?”

I stood up as I heard my name called. It had been an agonizing hour since I arrived at the CazoS Enterprise waiting room, watching the endless parade of applicants. The interview process was surprisingly quick, but the looks of sheer mental fatigue on the faces of the girls who just got interviewed told me that the person interrogating them was definitely hard to please.

“Please, come this way.” The woman who had been going in and out of the room to assist the interviewees motioned for me to follow as she led me toward the final office door, which had a sign that read: Mr. Schulz.

“Good luck. I wish you all the best,” the lady said, her tone sympathetic.

“Thank you,” I replied, taking a deep, desperate breath.

I knocked on the closed door three times before stepping back slightly, waiting for the powerful, stoic voice on the other side to signal me to come inside.

“Come in.”

The voice was commanding, very stoic, yet chillingly familiar. Hmm. Where did I hear this voice?

Twisting the door knob, I stepped inside the office. Hmmm, not bad, I thought, momentarily distracted as I scanned the room. His office was enormous and imposing—minimalist, but clearly expensive. He had a massive couch placed at the left side of the door, an entire wall of glass showcasing the entire glittering city, a custom bookshelf, and a gleaming dark wood table filled with papers on top of it.

“Ms. Mcfeller? Are you just going to remain standing there while ogling my office, or are you going to sit so that we can start with the interview? You see, I am a very busy man, and you are already wasting my time here.” The irritation was clear in his voice, now dangerously low.

The familiarity of the voice spiked, and the moment I finally looked away from the view, I focused on the man standing behind the desk. There he was.

Gracious Mary!

Standing in front of me, glaring at me with his burning eyes once again, was the very same jerk from the elevator. The same light brown-haired man. The flawless, all-black suit. The barely contained fury visible in the bulging veins on his neck and the clenching of his hands.

The moment our eyes met, I could see recognition flicker in his eyes—not just recognition of the elevator incident, but something deeper, something colder.

“You!” he yelled, the word sharp and accusatory.

I could already tell this man was a total douchebag. I mentally rolled my eyes, fighting every instinct to turn and run, and forced myself to sit at the seat placed just inches away from him.

“Oh! Uh, I a-am sorry, Sir,” I stammered out, apologizing for the second time in five minutes.

I could not bear losing this opportunity. Not now that I had managed to come this far and was facing the most powerful man in the building.

“Whatever. Now, Ms. Mcfeller.” He sat professionally in his chair, leaning back, his hands flat on the table. The anger in his eyes was replaced by a dangerous, calculating stillness. “Tell me about yourself.”

“My name is Audrey-Khloe Linnett Oakley Mcfeller, I am—” I started, immediately reciting my full, alias-heavy name, but he interrupted me.

“Can we skip the part where you recite what was written on your resume, Ms. Mcfeller? I have eyes, and I can read them clearly. I also note the use of your multiple surnames.” He said, his irritation returning, laced now with sharp suspicion.

Clearing my throat and composing myself as I sat uncomfortably in front of him, I forced myself to focus. Come on, Audrey. You have to do this. You have been preparing for this.

“C-currently, uhm, I worked as a personal assistant at one of the biggest companies in the Philippines. From my two years of experience as a personal assistant, I have built up the capacity to foresee obstacles and create powerful alternative plans. My greatest value to any executive is my ability to work independently, saving their time to concentrate on the necessities of the business. It is clear that you are searching for somebody who comprehends the nuances of dealing with a CEO’s busy day and can proactively handle issues. As somebody with an eye for detail and a drive to organize, I thrive on making sure every day has a clear plan, and every plan is clearly communicated.”

He seemed satisfied with the professional veneer of my answer. He leaned forward, setting his elbows on the desk, tenting his fingers at his chin, observing me like a predator assessing prey.

“How would you describe yourself?” he asked.

“I would say that as a personal assistant and independent woman, I am vigilant, proactive, and committed to ensure that my work is done accordingly and to avoid any mistake. I am enthusiastic about my work. Since I love what I do, I have a consistent wellspring of motivation that drives me to give a valiant effort. In my last occupation, this enthusiasm drove me to challenge myself every day and learn new abilities that helped me to accomplish better work. I am likewise exceptionally organized. I generally take notes, and I utilize a progression of tools to assist myself with keeping steady over deadlines. I like to keep a clean workspace and create a logical filing strategy so I am always ready to find what I need. I find this builds effectiveness and helps the rest of the team to stay on track, as well.”

What I said was partly true. I had led teams when I was working in one of our family companies, and having that experience did help me improve myself, but after that unexpected tragedy, my dad decided that I was better off staying home.

“Okay, that is it for today. My receptionist will just call you and let you know if you got the job or not. You can go out now.”

Whaaat? That was it? No more interrogation? I stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Thank you, Mr. Schulz. Have a good day,” I managed, the polite words leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

Not. I said mentally as I walked out of his office. This guy! I swore, if this was not a job interview, I would slap that precious face of his. Does he even have manners? How could he just end the interview like that? Some companies would ask many questions to make sure that they hired the right person who was fit for the job, but this guy was different.

What!? No! Shut up, Audrey! What precious face are you talking about!? That face is far from precious! It is more like an ugly crocodile’s face. No! Crocodiles have a beautiful face. He just has the worst and ugliest face on earth! I chastised myself internally, the insult doing little to temper the heat rising in my cheeks.

As I walked out of the elevator door and into the main lobby, Zoey noticed me right away and offered me a reassuring smile.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“It was okay. It was like you have just been interviewed by a devil,” I confessed, shaking my head.

“I feel you. I was having the same thought as well when I was still in your shoes. Mr. Schulz can be too much,” she said, chuckling as she looked at my horrified and annoyed face.

“Yeah, he is. Very.” I hurried toward the exit, leaving the cold glass tower behind, praying that my defiance in the elevator hadn't cost me the one job that could save me.