Confidence

Chapter Eight

Martina’s POV

I stare at my reflection in the mirror for what feels like the tenth time.

Maybe more.

The girl looking back at me doesn’t feel like me.

The outfit—borrowed from Vera just yesterday—fits well enough, but it’s not mine. The fabric feels unfamiliar against my skin, stiff in places, too proper… too polished. Corporate.

I smooth down the front again, tugging slightly at the hem, adjusting the sleeves like that might somehow make me belong in it.

I don’t have anything like this.

Never did.

A small breath escapes me.

“Just one day,” I whisper under my breath. “You just have to get through one day.”

My eyes flick to the clock.

5: 35 a.m.

My heart skips.

I’m late.

Panic shoots through me as I grab my bag, quickly running my fingers through my hair one last time. I woke up late—too late—and everything since then has been rushed, messy, unsteady.

Not how I wanted my first day to start.

I take one final look at myself.

Then I turn and step out of the room.

The faint smell of medicine greets me immediately.

And there she is.

My mom is already awake, sitting up on the bed, her frail frame wrapped in a thin wrapper. The early morning light filters through the window, casting a soft glow on her face.

She looks tired.

But she’s smiling.

“You look beautiful,” she says gently, her eyes warm despite the exhaustion behind them. “I wish you good luck.”

My chest tightens.

That smile…

It’s the same one she gave me last night when I told her about the job.

Hopeful.

Proud.

Like, for the first time in a long while, things might actually get better.

I force a smile back, softer this time.

“Thank you, Mom,” I say quietly.

And for a moment, despite the nerves, despite everything waiting for me outside that door—

I want to believe it too.

I rush out of the house, barely remembering to lock the door behind me. The morning air is cool, but my body is already warm with panic.

“Taxi!” I call out, waving frantically.

One pulls over, and I quickly jump in, giving the address with a shaky voice. As the car moves, I keep checking my wristwatch over and over again.

Each second feels like a warning.

I’m going to be late.

I already know it.

“Please, can you go a little faster?” I ask, my voice tight with urgency.

The driver glances at me through the mirror but says nothing, his attention returning to the road.

Traffic.

Of course.

I press my lips together, my fingers gripping my bag tightly as my thoughts spiral.

First day… and I’m already messing up.

Twenty minutes later, the car finally pulls up in front of a massive gate.

I freeze for a second.

This isn’t just a house.

It’s a mansion.

Tall gates. High walls. Everything about it screams wealth—power—the kind of place people like me only see from the outside.

My stomach twists.

I quickly pay the driver and step out, staring up at the building for a brief moment before shaking myself out of it.

No time.

I hurry to the gate, speaking briefly with security before being let in. My steps feel smaller now as I walk through the compound, taking in the perfectly trimmed lawns, the silence, the intimidating elegance of it all.

I reach the front door and knock.

The door opens.

A neatly dressed lady stands there, her posture straight, her expression neutral but assessing.

“Yes?” she asks.

“H-hi… I’m Martina. I just resumed today,” I say, trying to steady my breathing.

She looks me over briefly, then nods. “Come in.”

I step inside—and immediately feel out of place.

The house is even more intimidating on the inside. Everything is spotless, expensive, perfectly arranged. My shoes feel too loud against the polished floor.

Then I see him.

Herrick.

He’s already dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, standing near the center of the room like he owns not just the house—but the air in it.

His tie hangs loosely around his neck, untied.

Like he stopped midway.

Waiting.

For me.

“Good morning, sir,” I say quickly, lowering my gaze slightly.

Silence.

I can feel his eyes on me before I even dare to look up.

When I finally do, his expression is unreadable.

Cold.

Sharp.

Unforgiving.

“You’re five minutes late.”

His voice is low, controlled—but it lands like a slap.

My throat tightens.

“I—there was traffic, I—”

“Do you think I care about excuses?” he cuts in smoothly, taking a step closer.

The air shifts instantly.

Heavy.

Intimidating.

“Do you think you need this job?” he continues, his gaze locking onto mine. “Because from where I stand… it doesn’t look like it.”

My fingers curl tightly at my sides.

“I do,” I manage to say, my voice quieter now.

He studies me for a long second, like he’s deciding something.

Then—

“Or,” he adds coldly, adjusting his cufflinks with slow precision, “do you want to get fired on your first day?”

The words settle heavily in the space between us.

And just like that, every bit of confidence I tried to gather this morning starts to crumble.