Chapter Three

Monday morning came faster than Shayla was ready for.

She stood in front of her closet—well, the corner of her bedroom that functioned as a closet—staring at the limited options hanging before her. Professional attire wasn't exactly her strongest wardrobe category, considering her usual uniform consisted of coffee-stained aprons and supermarket polo shirts.

But today was different. Today required her A-game.

After applying on Saturday afternoon, she'd spent the rest of the weekend convincing herself nothing would come of it. These things took time—weeks, sometimes months. She'd prepared herself for the waiting game, for the inevitable disappointment.

Then Sunday evening happened.

The email had arrived at 6:47 PM, subject line: *Interview Invitation - Personal Assistant Position - GC Group of Companies.* Shayla had read it three times to make sure it was real, then screamed loud enough that Ayven came running from his room asking if she'd seen a spider.

Interview scheduled for Monday, 10:00 AM sharp.

Less than twenty-four hours' notice. They clearly didn't believe in wasting time.

Now, standing in her underwear with her hair still damp from the shower, reality was setting in fast. She pulled out her black pencil skirt—the one she'd bought two years ago for a job interview that went nowhere—and her white button-down blouse. The black suit jacket came next, the one Ruby had insisted she buy "for emergencies." Apparently, this qualified.

She dressed quickly, smoothing down the skirt that hit just above her knees, tucking in the blouse, shrugging into the jacket. The outfit was simple, professional, and safe. The kind of thing that said “I'm competent” without screaming “I'm trying too hard”.

Her feet slid into black heels—modest ones, because she refused to be the woman who couldn't walk in her own shoes. She'd practiced last night, pacing back and forth in her bedroom until Ayven asked if she was training for a runway show.

The CV went into a sleek black folder she'd found at the dollar store, along with copies of her certifications and a reference letter from her pre-med advisor. Everything was organized, labeled, and pristine. If they wanted to judge her based on preparation, she'd pass with flying colors.

Her hair, though. Her hair was staging a rebellion.

She'd spent forty minutes with a flat iron this morning, carefully straightening each section of her naturally curly hair until it fell in smooth, glossy waves. Professional. Polished. Perfect.

Except her hair had other plans.

By the time she finished her makeup, the humidity had already won the war. Soft curls were springing back to life at her temples, around her face, defying every product she'd used to tame them.

"Traitor," she muttered, gathering the whole mess into a low bun at the nape of her neck. Sleek might be out of reach, but neat would have to do.

She checked her reflection one final time. Smart. Professional. The kind of woman who could handle being a personal assistant to a CEO.

Fake it till you make it, right?

Ruby had already taken Ayven to school earlier—another morning rescue mission that Shayla would never be able to repay. She grabbed her purse, the folder with her CV, and headed out the door before her nerves could talk her out of showing up.

---

The taxi ride felt both endless and far too short.

Shayla watched the city blur past her window, skyscrapers rising like monuments to wealth and power she'd never quite understood. She'd lived here for seven years, but some parts of the city still felt foreign, like she was a tourist in someone else's life.

The meter ticked higher. Twelve dollars. Fifteen. Eighteen.

She'd budgeted twenty for the round trip, which meant she'd be walking part of the way home if the return fare ran high. But that was a problem for later.

"This is it," the driver said, pulling up to a building that made Shayla's stomach drop.

She paid, tipped as much as she could afford, and climbed out onto the sidewalk.

And just... stared.

The building was massive. A gleaming tower of glass and steel that seemed to scrape the sky itself, all sharp angles and modern architecture that screamed money in every reflective surface. The entrance was flanked by perfectly manicured landscaping, and people in expensive suits moved in and out with the kind of confidence that came from knowing they belonged there.

GC Group of Companies. The letters were etched into the stone above the entrance in bold, unforgiving font.

Shayla took a deep breath, trying to calm the flutter of panic rising in her chest.

This was huge. Massive. The kind of opportunity that didn't come around twice.

She'd passed this exact spot five months ago on her way to her supermarket shift, and there'd been nothing here but construction scaffolding and cement trucks. Five months to build something this enormous. The money behind this project was staggering, the kind of wealth that built empires in record time.

Whoever owned this company was filthy rich.

And she was about to interview to be their personal assistant.

"You've got this," she whispered to herself, straightening her jacket. "You've got this."

Then she walked through those glass doors like she had every right to be there.

---

The interior was even more intimidating than the exterior.

The lobby was a cathedral of luxury—marble floors so polished she could see her reflection, floor-to-ceiling windows flooding the space with natural light, modern art installations that probably cost more than her annual salary. Everything gleamed. Everything was pristine.

Shayla's heels clicked against the marble as she approached the reception desk, where a woman with a sleek blonde bob and a smile sharp enough to cut glass looked up at her approach.

"Good morning. How can I help you?" Her voice was pleasant but detached, the tone of someone who'd perfected customer service without actual warmth.

"Good morning. I'm here for an interview. Shayla Hale, ten o'clock." She kept her voice steady, professional, refusing to let intimidation show.

The receptionist's fingers flew across her keyboard. "Ah, yes. Personal assistant position." She printed out a sticker tag and slid it across the counter. "You're number sixty-nine. Please have a seat in the waiting area. You'll be called when it's your turn."

Shayla took the tag, her stomach sinking as she read the number.

Sixty-nine.

Bloody hell.

She glanced toward the waiting area—a sprawling space filled with sleek leather chairs and low glass tables—and felt her confidence take another hit. The room was packed with people. Beautiful, polished, professionally dressed people who looked like they'd walked off the set of a corporate drama.

About seventy people applying for one job.

What were her chances of getting it? Really?

She found an empty chair near the back and sat down, crossing her legs and placing her folder neatly on her lap. Around her, the other applicants looked like they were attending a corporate fashion show. Designer suits, designer bags, designer everything. One woman across from her was wearing heels that probably cost more than Shayla's rent.

Doubt crept in, cold and insidious.

Maybe she wasn't cut out for this. Maybe she was out of her depth. Maybe—

No. She shut that thought down immediately. She'd come this far. She'd prepared. She had the qualifications, the skills, the drive. She just had to prove it.

The minutes crawled by. One applicant after another was called, disappearing through frosted glass doors into the interview room beyond. Some came out looking confident. Others looked like they'd just faced a firing squad.

Shayla checked her phone. 10:47 AM.

She'd been waiting forty-seven minutes.

Finally, a woman in a crisp navy suit stepped out and called, "Number sixty-nine?"

Shayla stood, smoothing down her skirt, and walked forward on legs that felt steadier than she expected.

"Good luck," someone murmured behind her.

She nodded without turning around and stepped through the frosted glass doors.

---

The interview room was smaller than she'd expected. Minimalist. A long conference table, three chairs on one side, one on the other. The walls were the same pristine white as the lobby, broken up only by a massive window overlooking the city.

A woman sat on the opposite side of the table. Late forties, sharp features, dark hair pulled back into a severe bun. She wore a charcoal gray suit that probably cost more than Shayla made in three months, and her expression was completely blank as she looked up from the tablet in front of her.

Her eyes swept over Shayla from head to toe—a slow, assessing scan that felt like being dissected under a microscope.

Shayla refused to squirm. Refused to fidget. She met the woman's gaze head-on and extended her hand.

"Good morning. Shayla Hale."

The woman's handshake was firm, businesslike. "Catherine Morales. Head of HR." She gestured to the chair across from her. "Please, sit."

Shayla sat, placing her folder on the table in front of her, spine straight, shoulders back. Professional. Confident. Exactly the kind of person who deserved this job.

Catherine tapped something on her tablet, then looked up. "Your resume is impressive. Pre-med background, business certifications, excellent references. But you dropped out of university in your junior year and spent the last seven years working retail and food service. Why should we consider you for a position that typically requires years of corporate experience?"

Straight for the jugular. No warm-up, no small talk.

Shayla had expected this. "Because I bring something more valuable than corporate experience—I bring adaptability. Working two jobs while raising a child and managing a household taught me time management, crisis resolution, and how to function under pressure. I can anticipate needs, solve problems before they escalate, and maintain professionalism in any situation. Your CEO doesn't need someone who just knows corporate protocol. They need someone who can think on their feet and deliver results."

Catherine's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. Interest, maybe. Or skepticism.

"Tell me about a time you handled a difficult situation with minimal resources."

Shayla didn't hesitate. She walked Catherine through a story from the supermarket—a system crash during the busiest shopping day of the year, angry customers, no manager on duty. She'd taken charge, manually processed transactions, kept customers calm, and solved the problem before corporate even knew there was one.

"And what makes you think you're qualified to work directly with a CEO?"

"Because I understand that being a personal assistant isn't about taking orders—it's about anticipating needs, protecting time, and making sure nothing falls through the cracks. I've spent seven years putting other people first, managing details, and ensuring everything runs smoothly. That's exactly what this position requires."

The questions kept coming. Rapid-fire, probing, designed to find weaknesses.

Shayla met every single one head-on.

She talked about her organizational skills, her communication abilities, her capacity to learn quickly. She highlighted her marketing knowledge...self-taught but extensive and how it would allow her to understand the business side of the role. She was honest about her gaps but framed them as opportunities for growth.

By the time Catherine finally sat back, Shayla's heart was pounding, but her voice had never wavered.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Hale." Catherine's expression was still unreadable. "You'll receive an email within the next forty-eight hours if you've been selected to move forward."

Not when.

If.

Shayla stood, shook her hand again, and walked out of that room with her head high.

---

The taxi ride to Ayven's school felt like a blur.

She'd done it. She'd actually done it. Whether she got the job or not, she'd walked into that interview and given it everything she had.

Now all she could do was wait.

The school pickup line was already forming when she arrived. She paid the driver—nineteen dollars, cutting it close—and joined the crowd of parents waiting outside the gates.

Ayven spotted her immediately, his backpack bouncing as he ran over, his face lit up with excitement.

"Momma! How'd it go?" He crashed into her legs, wrapping his arms around her waist.

Shayla ruffled his hair, smiling despite the exhaustion creeping in. "It went well, I think. We'll see."

"You got it. I know you did." He pulled back, grinning up at her with absolute confidence.

"We'll see, baby. It's not—"

Her phone buzzed in her purse.

Shayla froze.

Ayven's eyes went wide. "Is that—?"

She pulled out her phone with shaking hands, staring at the notification on her screen.

**New Email: GC Group of Companies**

Her heart stopped.

"What does it say?" Ayven whispered, gripping her arm.

Shayla stared at the screen, her thumb hovering over the email.

And for a long moment, she couldn't bring herself to open it.