THE WORST INTERVIEW

 

 

By eight forty-five the following morning, Chloe Bennett had already considered turning around three times.

The first time was outside her apartment, when she realized she had forgotten her portfolio.

The second was halfway down the subway stairs, when she remembered exactly how she had described Julian Vance the night before.

Arrogant. Insufferable. Possibly allergic to ordinary human conversation.

The third time was when the towering glass building bearing the name VANCE DESIGNS appeared before her.

She stopped on the pavement.

The building rose above the neighboring structures, all steel, glass, and expensive architectural confidence. Sunlight slid across its mirrored windows. People in tailored suits moved through the revolving doors as though they had been born knowing where they belonged.

Chloe looked down at her own outfit.

Black trousers. A cream blouse she had ironed twice. Shoes that were respectable from a distance and questionable up close.

And a portfolio bag she had nearly left at home.

“Wonderful,” she muttered. “I’m about to interview at the most intimidating company in New York, and my shoes look like they’ve survived a minor natural disaster.”

A man passing behind her glanced at her feet.

Chloe straightened immediately.

“Fashion statement,” she informed him.

He hurried away.

She took a breath, lifted her chin, and entered the building.

If her family had taught her anything, it was how to feel unwelcome in a room full of people. If Julian Vance had taught her anything, it was that she was apparently incapable of keeping an unwise opinion to herself.

Today, she would attempt something different.

She would be professional.

Polite.

Composed.

She would not mention terraces, arrogance, or the fact that Julian Vance looked like the kind of man who could dismiss an entire department before finishing his morning coffee.

Most importantly, she would get the job.

Her rent was due in eleven days.

Her bank balance was an embarrassment.

And her mother had recently suggested that Chloe consider a more practical career, such as office administration, as though Chloe had not spent the past three years applying for anything that paid enough to keep her independent.

She was done waiting for her family to approve of her dreams.

If she had to start with an ordinary job to build the life she wanted, she would.

The receptionist at the lobby desk greeted her with a polished smile.

“Good morning. How may I help you?”

“Good morning. I’m Chloe Bennett. I have an interview at nine for the executive assistant position.”

The receptionist checked her computer.

“Chloe Bennett. Yes, we have you scheduled with Human Resources. Please take the elevators to the twenty-second floor and check in at reception.”

“Thank you.”

Chloe followed the directions, clutching her portfolio bag as the elevator carried her upward.

The doors opened onto a bright, immaculate floor with glass-walled offices, polished floors, and employees who appeared to communicate exclusively through quiet efficiency.

Nobody was running late.

Nobody was arguing with a printer.

Nobody seemed to be questioning every decision they had ever made.

It was deeply unsettling.

At the reception desk, a woman with a neat bob and sharp glasses looked up.

“Name?”

“Chloe Bennett. Nine o’clock interview.”

“Please have a seat. Ms. Parker will be with you shortly.”

Chloe sat.

She crossed her legs, uncrossed them, then placed both feet firmly on the floor. She smoothed her blouse and opened her bag to check her résumé.

Everything was there.

Résumé.

References.

Portfolio.

Breath mints.

A small sketchbook she had brought without thinking.

She closed the bag.

No sketching. No unnecessary talking. No sarcasm.

She could do this.

“Ms. Bennett?”

Chloe stood so quickly that the strap of her bag caught on the chair.

The bag slid from her shoulder.

She grabbed it before it hit the floor, smiled at the receptionist as though nothing had happened, and followed a woman in a navy suit into a conference room.

“I'm Laura Parker, the HR manager,” the woman said, offering her hand. “Thank you for coming in.”

“Thank you for having me.”

Chloe shook her hand.

Good. A normal beginning.

Laura gestured toward a chair. A folder lay on the table in front of her, beside a tablet and a glass of water.

“We reviewed your application. You have a degree in business administration, experience with scheduling and document management, and some freelance work listed here.”

“Yes. I’ve done administrative work for a small design studio, and I’ve managed appointments, invoices, and project records for independent clients.”

“Your references were positive.”

Relief loosened Chloe’s shoulders.

“That's good to hear.”

Laura glanced at the résumé again.

“Why Vance Designs?”

There it was.

The question Chloe had prepared for.

She had practiced her answer in the mirror the previous night, trying to sound ambitious without sounding desperate and confident without sounding like someone who had swallowed a motivational book.

“Vance Designs has an excellent reputation for creative direction and large-scale exhibitions,” she began. “I’m interested in working in an environment where I can learn how major creative projects are organized and managed. I believe my administrative skills would allow me to contribute while gaining experience.”

Laura nodded.

“That's a reasonable answer. This position requires considerable flexibility. The executive assistant supports Mr. Vance directly, so the duties can extend beyond ordinary office administration. Scheduling, correspondence, confidential documents, travel arrangements, and coordination with other departments are all part of the role.”

Chloe nodded carefully.

“I understand.”

“You may also be asked to handle personal requests, arrange meetings at short notice, and manage competing priorities. Mr. Vance has a demanding schedule.”

Demanding.

That was one word for it.

Chloe remembered the stranger on the terrace standing beneath the city lights, looking at her as though he could see every insecurity she had tried to disguise.

She remembered the way he had challenged her, too.

Annoyingly, he had not been entirely wrong.

“I’m comfortable working under pressure,” she said.

Laura studied her.

“Some applicants say that without understanding what it means.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to demonstrate that I do.”

The HR manager's mouth curved faintly.

“Good answer.”

Chloe's confidence rose by approximately three percent.

Then Laura checked her tablet.

“Before we continue, I should mention that Mr. Vance occasionally joins final interviews for this position.”

Chloe's smile froze.

“Mr. Vance?”

“Julian Vance.”

“Yes. I know who he is.”

The words came out too quickly.

Laura raised an eyebrow.

Chloe cleared her throat.

“I mean, of course. He's the founder and creative director.”

“Correct.”

“Will he be joining us today?”

“I believe so.”

Chloe stared at the glass of water.

Perhaps if she drank enough, she could disappear into it.

There were millions of people in New York. Millions. What were the odds that the one man she had insulted at an art mixer would be sitting across from her during a job interview the next morning?

Apparently, the universe had a sense of humor.

And it was not a particularly kind one.

A knock sounded at the door.

Laura stood.

“Mr. Vance.”

Chloe rose so quickly that her knee struck the underside of the table.

Pain shot up her leg.

She kept her expression neutral through sheer force of will.

Julian Vance entered the room.

He wore a charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt, and the same expression of controlled indifference she remembered from the terrace. His dark hair was neatly styled, his watch understated but expensive, and his presence seemed to alter the room's atmosphere without his needing to say a word.

His gaze moved to Laura.

Then to Chloe.

He stopped.

Recognition flickered in his eyes.

For one glorious second, neither of them spoke.

Then Julian's mouth tilted at one corner.

“Ms. Bennett.”

Chloe swallowed.

“Mr. Vance.”

“Interesting.”

She disliked that word already.

Laura looked between them.

“You've met?”

“Briefly,” Julian said.

“Unfortunately,” Chloe said at the same time.

Silence.

Chloe closed her eyes for half a second.

Professional. Polite. Composed.

She opened them.

“I mean, we met at the art mixer last night. It was a pleasant conversation.”

Julian pulled out a chair.

“Was it?”

“Perfectly pleasant.”

“You called me arrogant.”

Laura's eyes widened.

Chloe looked at Julian.

“You were being arrogant.”

The words escaped before she could stop them.

Julian sat back, his expression unreadable.

Laura looked as though she was reconsidering every decision that had brought her into the room.

Chloe wanted the floor to open beneath her chair.

Instead, Julian folded his hands on the table.

“Well,” he said calmly, “at least we know she doesn't struggle with honesty.”

“Mr. Vance, I apologize,” Chloe began, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I shouldn't have spoken to you that way. I didn't know who you were, but that doesn't excuse my tone.”

“No. It doesn't.”

His answer landed harder than she expected.

Julian glanced at her résumé.

“Why did you apply for this position?”

Chloe drew a breath.

“Because I'm qualified for the administrative responsibilities, and I need a job.”

Laura shifted slightly.

Julian looked up.

“That is the first honest answer you've given today.”

“I was honest about the job description.”

“You gave me a polished answer about learning opportunities and contributing to creative projects. Nothing about why you need this particular job.”

“Is needing a job a crime?”

“No. But desperation can make people accept positions they aren't prepared for.”

Chloe's fingers tightened around the edge of her folder.

“And arrogance can make people assume they know what others are prepared for.”

Laura inhaled sharply.

Julian stared at Chloe.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed once.

It was brief and quiet, but it changed his face. For a moment, he looked less like the untouchable man whose name dominated the building and more like someone who had just encountered a problem he couldn't solve by issuing an instruction.

“Ms. Bennett,” he said, “do you always argue with people who might employ you?”

“Only when they make it unusually easy.”

Laura pressed her lips together.

Chloe suspected the woman was trying not to smile.

Julian leaned forward.

“Let's try again. What makes you believe you can do this job?”

Chloe forced herself to focus.

“I'm organized. I learn quickly. I can manage several tasks at once, and I don't mind doing work that other people consider unimportant. I've handled demanding clients, corrected other people's scheduling mistakes, and stayed up late fixing documents that someone else had neglected to check.”

“Can you maintain confidentiality?”

“Yes.”

“Can you handle criticism?”

The question struck closer to home.

Chloe thought of her mother, of her aunt's carefully delivered insults, of every relative who had looked at her illustrations and called them a childish distraction.

“I can handle criticism when it helps me improve,” she said. “I don't expect everyone to praise me. But I do expect criticism to have a purpose beyond making someone feel small.”

Julian's gaze sharpened.

“That's an interesting distinction.”

“It's an important one.”

“And if I tell you that your work is inadequate?”

“I'll ask what needs correcting.”

“And if you disagree with me?”

“I'll explain why, respectfully.”

“Even when I'm right?”

“Especially when you're right. There's no point wasting both our time arguing about something I can learn.”

For the first time since entering the room, Julian looked genuinely attentive.

He opened her portfolio folder.

Chloe stiffened.

“That isn't part of my administrative résumé.”

“I can see that.”

He turned a page.

Inside were several digital illustrations Chloe had printed for a small freelance application months ago. She had included them almost as an afterthought, uncertain whether they were relevant.

Julian studied the first image.

It showed a woman standing in a crowded subway carriage, her reflection fragmented across the windows. Every other passenger was absorbed in a phone or turned away. The woman alone looked directly at the viewer.

Julian turned to the next page.

Then another.

Chloe watched his expression, trying to determine whether he was impressed, unimpressed, or mentally composing a list of everything wrong with her work.

“You draw,” he said.

“I illustrate.”

“Digitally?”

“Yes.”

“Professionally?”

“Freelance. Small projects. Nothing major.”

“Why isn't this the focus of your application?”

“Because I'm applying for an assistant position, not a design role.”

“Do you want a design role?”

The question caught her off guard.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why are you applying to spend your days organizing someone else's calendar?”

“Because wanting something and being able to afford to wait for it are two different things.”

The words came out quieter than she intended.

For a moment, the room was still.

Chloe looked down at her hands.

She hadn't meant to tell him that much. She certainly hadn't meant to sound as though she were asking for sympathy.

“I can do the job,” she added. “And I'm not expecting anyone to hand me an artistic career just because I have a portfolio.”

Julian closed the folder.

“Good.”

Chloe looked up.

“Good?”

“I have no interest in hiring someone who believes talent exempts them from responsibility.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then we agree on something.”

“Let's not get carried away.”

Laura made a small sound that might have been a cough.

Julian's gaze remained on Chloe for another moment before he turned toward the HR manager.

“How soon can she start?”

Chloe blinked.

Laura blinked.

Even the clock on the wall seemed to hesitate.

“I'm sorry,” Chloe said. “What?”

Julian looked at her.

“You applied for the executive assistant position. The job requires someone who can keep up with my schedule, handle confidential matters, and deal with pressure without needing constant supervision. Ms. Parker has confirmed your qualifications, and your answers suggest you can do the work.”

“You're offering me the job?”

“Yes.”

Chloe stared at him.

A strange, dizzying mixture of relief and suspicion rushed through her.

She had prepared herself for rejection. She had prepared herself for an awkward goodbye, an encouraging lie from HR, and another afternoon of sending applications into the bottomless pit of online recruitment.

She had not prepared herself for Julian Vance offering her a job after she had practically called him arrogant to his face twice.

“Why?” she asked.

Laura gave her a warning look.

Julian, however, seemed to appreciate the question.

“Because you appear capable, you don't seem afraid of hard work, and you have a habit of saying what you mean.”

“Those last two qualities can be inconvenient.”

“I've noticed.”

Chloe narrowed her eyes.

“Is this your way of punishing me for last night?”

“If I wanted to punish you, Ms. Bennett, I would give you my calendar.”

She couldn't tell whether he was joking.

That was going to be a problem.

Julian continued.

“Your starting position is executive assistant. The work will be demanding, and it will not involve designing exhibitions or creating artwork. You'll be responsible for administrative tasks, scheduling, correspondence, coordination, and whatever reasonable duties are necessary to keep this office functioning.”

The relief in Chloe's chest dimmed slightly.

She had known the role wasn't an artistic position. Still, hearing it stated so plainly made the distance between her current life and the one she wanted feel enormous.

“Understood,” she said.

“You will not be hired as a designer simply because you can draw. If you eventually want to work in the creative department, you'll have to demonstrate that you're qualified for an opening and follow the proper process.”

“I'm not asking for special treatment.”

“Good. I don't give it.”

Chloe almost smiled.

Of course you don't.

Julian stood, signaling the end of the interview.

“Ms. Parker will arrange your paperwork. Report to my office at eight tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No.”

“Excellent.”

He started toward the door, then paused.

“One more thing.”

Chloe braced herself.

“Yes?”

“At work, you will address me as Mr. Vance unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Of course, Mr. Vance.”

“And you will not argue with me in front of clients.”

“I would never—”

Julian looked at her.

Chloe stopped.

“Understood,” she amended.

“Good.”

He left the room.

The door clicked shut.

For three full seconds, Chloe didn't move.

Then she turned to Laura.

“Did I just get hired?”

Laura looked at her with an expression somewhere between admiration and disbelief.

“You did.”

“By Julian Vance.”

“Yes.”

“The same Julian Vance who owns this company.”

“Yes, Ms. Bennett.”

“The one I called arrogant last night.”

Laura gathered the papers on the table.

“I believe we've established that.”

Chloe sank back into her chair and covered her face with both hands.

“Oh, my God.”

A soft laugh escaped Laura.

“Believe me, I've seen stranger interviews.”

“Really?”

“No. But I thought it might make you feel better.”

Chloe lowered her hands.

For the first time that morning, she laughed.

It wasn't graceful or particularly quiet, but it loosened the knot in her chest.

Laura slid a folder toward her.

“Your formal offer and employment documents. Read everything carefully before signing. The position comes with a probationary period, and Mr. Vance expects a great deal from his staff.”

Chloe opened the folder.

The salary was better than she had expected.

Not enough to make her wealthy. Not enough to erase every financial worry overnight.

But enough to breathe.

Enough to pay rent without calculating every purchase. Enough to keep applying herself to her art without feeling that each unfinished illustration was another step toward failure.

Enough to give herself a chance.

She signed the necessary documents.

As she left the conference room, she caught sight of her reflection in the glass wall.

Her blouse was slightly wrinkled. Her hair had begun escaping its neat arrangement. Her dignity had suffered several injuries.

But she had a job.

She had walked into Vance Designs terrified of being rejected, and she was leaving with an opportunity she hadn't dared to expect.

For the first time in weeks, the future felt less like a locked door and more like a hallway with several possible exits.

Then she reached the elevators.

A message from her mother appeared on her phone.

Mum: How did the interview go? Please tell me you have a sensible plan if this doesn't work out.

Chloe stared at the message.

She could almost hear Eleanor Bennett's voice, measured and concerned in that particular way that always made disappointment sound like love.

Chloe typed a reply.

Chloe: I got the job.

The response arrived less than a minute later.

Mum: Doing what?

Chloe's smile faded.

She looked at the employment folder tucked beneath her arm.

Executive assistant.

Not artist. Not designer. Not the career she had spent years imagining.

But it was a beginning.

Chloe: Executive assistant at Vance Designs.

Three dots appeared, vanished, then appeared again.

Mum: Well, at least it's a proper job. Don't let your imagination distract you from the opportunity.

Chloe read the message twice.

Then she locked her phone.

She would not allow her mother's approval to determine whether this day mattered.

She would not allow anyone to turn a beginning into a failure simply because it wasn't the ending she wanted.

The elevator doors opened.

Chloe stepped inside.

Tomorrow morning, she would return to this building and work for Julian Vance.

She would organize his schedule, manage his correspondence, handle his errands, and probably learn more about his coffee preferences than any human being should reasonably need to know.

She would do the job well.

And when the time came, she would find a way to earn her place in the creative world.

She had barely reached the lobby when her phone vibrated again.

This time, the message came from an unknown number.

Unknown: Eight o'clock. Don't be late.

Chloe stared at the screen.

A second message followed.

Unknown: And bring a notebook. You'll need it.

She didn't need to ask who had sent it.

She looked up toward the upper floors, where Julian Vance's office overlooked the city.

“Controlling,” she muttered.

Then, after a moment, she added, “Insufferably controlling.”

Her phone vibrated one final time.

Unknown: I can read the messages you send to my company phone, Ms. Bennett. I suggest you save the insults for after work.

Chloe's mouth fell open.

She looked at the screen.

Then at the phone number.

Then back at the screen.

A slow, horrified realization settled over her.

She had somehow replied to the number HR had provided for work-related communication.

And she had just insulted her new boss.

Again.

Chloe squeezed her eyes shut.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered to the empty lobby, “is going to be a disaster.”

High above her, in his glass-walled office, Julian Vance read her last message.

For the first time that morning, he smiled without trying to hide it.

Then he set his phone down and returned to the exhibition proposal waiting on his desk.

He had hired an assistant.

Whether he had also hired a problem remained to be seen.