The interview

Clara’s POV

The first thing I noticed was the light it was overwhelming.Sunlight flooded my eyes as if it had been waiting all night to strike. I groaned and rolled over, feeling heavy with exhaustion.

Then I looked at my phone.

8:23 a.m.

My heart stopped.

“Oh my God.”

I jumped out of bed so fast that my blanket tangled around my legs. “Zara!” I shouted, tripping over my own shoes.

From under her blanket, she groaned. “What? Why are you yelling like the world is ending?”

“It’s ending!” I grabbed my phone and pointed at the screen as if it could explain itself. “I’m late! My interview’s at eight!”

Her sleepy eyes blinked open. “Oh.” Then she smiled lazily. “You’ll be fine. Just smile at the billionaire and say traffic was bad.”

“Zara, this isn’t funny!” I ran to the mirror. My hair looked like a small storm had passed through it. I grabbed a brush, trying to fix the impossible. “I can’t believe this! Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“You came in late, remember?” she mumbled, turning over. “And you told me not to disturb your beauty sleep.”

“I didn’t mean this!”

I tore through my small wardrobe, tossing clothes everywhere. My favorite blouse had a stain, my backup had a missing button, and my only iron was broken.

“Perfect,” I muttered. “Just perfect.”

Finally, I found a white shirt that looked decent and a black pencil skirt that didn’t make me feel completely poor. I brushed on light makeup, hoping I didn’t look as nervous as I felt.

Zara lifted her head just enough to see me. “You look hot. He’ll forget the time when he sees you.”

I shot her a glare. “Zara, this isn’t a movie. It’s a job interview.”

“Everything’s a movie if you play your role right,” she said sleepily.

I shook my head and grabbed my bag. “I’m leaving. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, Miss Future CEO!”

Outside, the city was already awake. Cars honked, people rushed, and the air buzzed with that familiar New York chaos. I hurried down the steps of our apartment building, my heels clicking like my heartbeat was trying to escape through them.

The streets were packed, and of course, there wasn’t a single free cab in sight. I stood there for a moment, feeling like I might cry. Then a yellow taxi finally pulled up.

“Thorne Enterprises, Midtown!” I shouted, jumping in.

The driver nodded, chewing gum. “You’re in a hurry, huh?”

“You have no idea,” I said, glancing at the time again. 8:37 a.m.

I leaned back and gripped my bag. My heart raced. My mind flooded with every possible disaster — what if they refused to see me? What if I looked unprofessional? What if I tripped in front of everyone?

Then, against my will, my thoughts drifted to last night — the music, the laughter, Zara’s silly dancing, and that one moment... the man across the room.

Tall. Dark suit. Cold eyes.

I hadn’t even meant to notice him, but something about that moment had felt strange — heavy, like a spark that didn’t make sense.

I shook the thought away. “Focus, Clara,” I whispered to myself. “This is your chance. Don’t mess it up.”

The cab slowed in front of a tall glass tower that seemed to scrape the sky. Thorne Enterprises.

The building was sleek — all mirrors and steel — the kind of place where everything and everyone looked expensive. My hands were sweating as I paid the driver.

“Good luck, miss,” he said as I got out.

I smiled weakly. “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

The revolving doors felt like a gateway to another world. Inside, the lobby was wide and gleaming — marble floors, golden lights, and people moving like they owned time itself.

I walked to the reception desk, trying to appear calm.

“Good morning,” I said, breathless but polite. “I’m here for an interview. Clara Rivers.”

The receptionist looked up — a woman with perfect red lipstick and eyes that had probably seen countless nervous girls like me. “You’re ten minutes late,” she said flatly.

“I—I know. I’m so sorry. The traffic—”

She didn’t even blink. “Take the elevator to the 30th floor. HR office. Next.”

I swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

My heels clicked against the marble as I walked toward the elevators. My reflection stared back at me from every shiny surface- a girl who looked too nervous to belong here.

When the elevator doors closed, I exhaled slowly. “This is it,” I whispered. “Don’t mess this up.”

The elevator hummed softly as it climbed. I tried to calm my breathing, pressing a hand to my chest. My fingers trembled slightly, half fear, half adrenaline.

When the doors finally opened on the 30th floor, I stepped into a hallway that smelled faintly of expensive cologne and power.

I didn’t know it yet, but somewhere beyond those glass doors was the same man I’d seen last night — the one who had looked at me like he already knew me.

The hallway was too quiet.

Each step I took echoed softly, the sound of my heels bouncing off the glass walls. My palms were sweating again, and I rubbed them against my skirt before gripping my folder tighter.

The HR office was at the end of the corridor. A woman with sleek hair and silver glasses looked up when I entered.

“Clara Rivers?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, trying to sound confident.

“Mr. Thorne will see you personally,” she said, standing and straightening her jacket.

My heart almost stopped.

“Mr. Thorne? As in… the CEO?”

“Yes. He requested to handle the final interview himself.” She gave me a polite but tight smile. “You’re lucky. Or maybe not.”

I didn’t even know what to say. My voice caught somewhere between panic and disbelief.

“I….I thought this was just a regular assistant position…”

“It is,” she said, walking ahead. “But Mr. Thorne is very particular about the people who work closely with him.”

She led me through another glass door, and I swear my knees started to shake.

The office was huge. Floor-to-ceiling windows filled the space with soft morning light. The city lay below like a silver sea. The walls were black and white — minimalist, cold, and expensive.

Then I saw him.

Elias Thorne.

He stood by the window, his back to me, talking on the phone. He was taller than I remembered from the club — broader, calmer. He wore a dark gray suit that looked like it had been made just for him.

His voice was deep and calm. “No. Move the meeting to Thursday. If they can’t manage, we’ll find someone who can.” The way he spoke made everyone else seem small.

He ended the call and turned to face me. For a second, I forgot to breathe. His eyes — cold gray and sharp enough to cut glass — met mine. Recognition flickered for a heartbeat, but he didn’t say anything. If he remembered seeing me last night, he hid it well.

“Miss Rivers,” he finally said, his voice smooth but unreadable. “You’re late.”

I swallowed. “I’m really sorry, sir. There was traffic, and…..”

“I don’t want to hear excuses,” he interrupted, walking toward his desk. “I want results.”

He sat down and gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

I did, trying to breathe steadily. My fingers fidgeted with the edge of my folder. He opened my résumé, glanced at it briefly, and then looked up at me.

“You just graduated?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No prior experience?”

“Only internships,” I said softly. “But I’m willing to learn.”

His gaze didn’t waver. It felt like he could see through me, stripping away every layer of pretense.

“Willingness doesn’t guarantee skill,” he said finally.

My stomach dropped. “I—I understand.”

Then he leaned back slightly, studying me. “Why did you apply for this position?”

I hesitated. “Because I… I need a job. And I believe I can handle responsibility. I’m organized, punctual—” I winced. “—usually punctual.”

For a second, something like amusement flickered in his eyes, but it vanished quickly.

“Honest answer,” he said. “That’s rare.”

I looked down, unsure if it was meant as a compliment.

He flipped through another page, then set the folder aside. “You’re not from New York, are you?”

I shook my head. “No, sir. I moved here last year.”

“Family?”

“Not here,” I said quietly.

He nodded once, as if that explained something. The silence stretched — heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just intense.

Finally, he turned back toward the window. “Miss Rivers, this position requires long hours, complete discretion, and total loyalty. You’ll handle personal matters at times, not just paperwork. Do you understand what that means?”

I hesitated. “I… I think so, sir.”

“Think,” he repeated, turning to look at me. “Or know?”

His gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, I forgot how to think at all. My pulse quickened.

“I… I know,” I managed.

He studied me for a few seconds that felt like minutes, then said, “Fine. You’ll be contacted by HR by the end of the day.”

My mouth fell open. “Does that mean I got the job?”

“It means I’ll think about it,” he replied, sitting down again. “You can go.”

I stood, trying not to show how shaken I felt. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Thorne.”

He nodded, already focused on his computer screen again. “Close the door behind you.”

When I stepped into the hallway, my legs trembled. My heart raced so fast it hurt. I barely made it to the elevator before releasing a shaky breath. Something about him scared me — not in a bad way, but in a way that made you feel too much. He was unlike anyone I had ever met.

And I had a strange, almost ridiculous thought: if this man offered me the world, I wasn’t sure I’d be brave enough to take it.

The afternoon flew by. I couldn’t stop replaying the interview in my head — his voice, his eyes, the way he looked at me like he could see right through every layer I tried to hide.

By evening, I had convinced myself it was over. No one gets hired after arriving late to a billionaire’s office.

Zara lay sprawled on the couch when I got home, eating chips and watching a reality show. “So?” she asked with her mouth full. “Did you get the job or what?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, tossing my bag onto the chair. “He said they’d call me if they decided.”

“Describe him again,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Was he as hot as those billionaire guys on TikTok?”

I rolled my eyes. “He was… intimidating.”

“Hot intimidating or scary intimidating?”

I thought about it. “Both.”

Zara smirked. “Then you’ll never forget him.”

I didn’t reply, but she wasn’t wrong. His face had branded itself in my mind — cold, distant, perfect. The kind of man you could admire from afar but could never reach without getting burned.

I was halfway through making noodles when my phone rang. Unknown number. My heart jumped.

“Hello?”

“Miss Rivers?” A crisp female voice. “This is HR from Thorne Enterprises. Mr. Thorne would like to see you again. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” I nearly dropped the phone. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem. He requested your presence at his penthouse office at 8 p.m. sharp. Dress formally.”

“His penthouse office?”

“Yes. The driver will pick you up at 7:30. Please be punctual this time.”

The line clicked off before I could ask anything else.

Zara’s eyes widened. “What was that?”

“I… I think I have another interview,” I said slowly.

“Tonight? Girl, billionaires don’t do second interviews at night. That man wants something else.”

“Zara, stop,” I said, feeling heat rise in my face. “It’s probably just business.”

She grinned. “Business, my foot. Anyway, wear that black dress — the one that makes your legs look amazing.”

“Zara…..”

“Trust me,” she said, grabbing my shoulders. “You might be walking into something big tonight.”

By 7:25, a sleek black car waited downstairs. The driver opened the door without a word. I sat in the back seat, my stomach twisting into knots. New York lights flashed by — gold and white streaks through the tinted windows. My reflection stared back at me: nervous eyes, trembling hands, red lipstick Zara insisted on.

When we stopped, I looked up and realized it wasn’t just an office building — it was his building. The top half was all glass, glowing softly against the night sky.

The driver led me into a private elevator. My heart thudded with every passing floor until the doors opened onto a wide penthouse suite that looked like something out of a movie — soft lights, marble floors, and the city sprawling below.

Elias Thorne stood by the bar, pouring something dark into a glass. He turned when I entered.

“Miss Rivers,” he said. “Right on time this time.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

“Drink?”

“No, thank you.”

He nodded and walked toward me, his steps slow and deliberate. “Do you know why you’re here?”

I shook my head. “For... a follow-up interview?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Something like that.”

He gestured to the sofa. “Sit.”

I obeyed, my pulse pounding in my ears.

He sat across from me and set his glass down. “You’re different from the usual applicants.”

“I—thank you?”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” he said softly, his tone unreadable. “Most people who come to me want something — money, power, access. You look like you need to survive.”

I froze. He was

n’t wrong, but hearing it out loud felt too raw.

He leaned forward slightly. “I need someone I can trust. Someone with no hidden motives.”

I frowned a little. “For what kind of work?”

He studied me for a moment before saying it.

“I need a fiancée.”

I blinked. “A... what?”