Chapter Four

Elena

I didn’t go home.

Home is a studio the size of a shoebox with a radiator that clanks like it’s dying and a mattress that still smells faintly like the coconut oil I put in my hair last week. If I walk in there right now I’ll just sit on the floor and replay every second of that conference room on loop until I’m sick.

So I ride the subway all the way to the hospital instead. Visiting hours don’t start until noon, but the cafeteria never closes and the coffee is terrible enough to punish me.

I get a corner table by the window that looks out on the ambulance bay and nurse-smoke-break area. The coffee tastes like it was brewed during the Clinton administration. I drink it black and scalding.

My phone lights up.

Sophia:

SPILL. How bad was it?? Did you nail it?? Are we getting lunch on the company dime soon or what??

Sophia. My ride-or-die since we both cried over stats midterms. The one who basically shoved my résumé at HR because “they’re desperate for someone who isn’t a walking midlife crisis.” The one I can never, ever tell that I banged the CEO six hours before my interview.

I type, delete, type again.

Me: It was… weird. I’ll call you later.

Sophia: Weird how?? Did you meet the Ice King himself?

Ice King. Yeah. That tracks.

Me: Yup. Intense is putting it mildly. He said he’d be in touch.

Sophia: That’s good! That’s the “you’re in the final pile” line. If you tanked they ghost you by 3 p.m.

Hope and panic do a cage match in my stomach.

Then my phone actually rings. Unknown number. My heart tries to climb out my throat.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Martinez? Jennifer Chen again.”

This is the kill shot. They’re calling to say thanks but please never apply here again.

“Hi, yes, this is she.”

“Mr. Blackwood was extremely impressed with your proposal.”

I blink. “He… was?”

“Very. He does, however, want to test culture fit with the broader team. We’d like you back tomorrow at ten for a second round. Full marketing group. Does that work?”

I’m nodding like she can see me. “Yes. Perfect. Ten is perfect.”

“Excellent. I’ll send the calendar invite. Mr. Blackwood may or may not join—his schedule is fluid—but he’ll review everything before deciding.”

Relief hits so hard I almost laugh. There’s a fifty-fifty chance I won’t have to look into those stupid blue eyes tomorrow.

“Thank you so much.”

I hang up and stare at the phone like it just grew wings.

A second interview. A real one.

I should be screaming. Instead I feel like I’m going to throw up burnt coffee all over the linoleum.

“Elena?”

Dr. Patterson is standing there in sea-foam scrubs, holding his own cup of sad coffee.

“Hey. Hi. You’re early too, huh?”

“Night shift never really ends.” He gestures at the empty chair. “Mind if I sit for a second before I face real sunlight?”

I wave him in.

He folds himself down with the groan of a man who’s been on his feet for twelve hours. “How’re you holding up, kid?”

The gentle way he says it cracks me wide open.

“I think I just accidentally torpedoed my entire career,” I blurt.

He winces in sympathy but doesn’t pry. “Whatever it is, you’ll fix it. You’re the toughest twenty-five-year-old I know.”

I laugh, but it comes out wet.

“Your abuela’s vitals are beautiful,” he says. “She’s sleeping now, but she’ll be up soon. She keeps bragging about her granddaughter the marketing genius who’s going to ‘take over the world, just wait and see.’”

Guilt twists hard. Because if Abuela knew what I did last night…

Dr. Patterson pats my hand and leaves me with the dregs of my coffee and a heart that feels like it’s been through a blender.

My phone buzzes again.

Sophia: SECOND INTERVIEW TOMORROW!! I saw it pop in the system!! Elena this is HUGE. He never drags people back unless he’s obsessed.

Then, immediately:

Sophia: Why didn’t YOU tell me??

Me: Just got off the phone with Jennifer. Still processing.

Sophia: We’re celebrating tonight. Tacos and cheap margaritas. No excuses.

Me: Rain check? I need to prep.

Sophia: Fine but you owe me details. Also fair warning: Blackwood is a nightmare boss. Brilliant, but he ate three strategists last year alone.

Me: Why so many casualties?

Sophia: Standards higher than the penthouse. And the ex-fiancée thing. She banged his business partner, took half the board with her when she left. He’s been a human glacier ever since.

I stare at the screen.

Two years ago. And he still looked at me last night like touching me might be the first good thing that’s happened to him in a decade.

I hate that I know that about him.

I hate that I care.

I take the elevator up to the fourth floor anyway. Room 407 is quiet. Abuela’s asleep, silver hair fanned across the pillow, the heart monitor beeping slow and steady like a lullaby.

I don’t go in. Just watch her through the window for a long minute, trying to remember the version of me that existed forty-eight hours ago. The one who still believed careful plans and hard work were enough.

My phone pings. Email from Jennifer.

Subject: Tomorrow – Crisis Scenario Attached

Of course there’s a crisis exercise. Because why not twist the knife a little more.

I open the attachment right there in the hallway, lean against the wall, and start reading.

Product launch disaster. Social-media firestorm. Stock dropping 8% pre-market. Fix it in twenty minutes or less.

Perfect. Just like real life.

I pull my laptop out of my bag, sit cross-legged on the freezing tile floor outside Abuela’s room, and get to work.

Because tomorrow I’m walking back into that building and I’m going to be so good he has no choice but to hire me.

And if pretending last night never happened is the price I have to pay?

Then I’ll pay for it.

Even if it tears me in half.