Unexpected Offer

Isabelle sat stiffly on the narrow lobby chair, her damp palms pressed together as the second hand on the wall clock ticked by—each one louder than the last. It was already twenty-two minutes past her scheduled interview, and every minute felt like a nail into the coffin of her chances. Her blouse was slightly wrinkled from rushing through Manila traffic, her shoes damp from a morning downpour. She couldn’t help but wonder if this was fate's cruel reminder that the world rarely cut people like her a break.

She had barely taken a deep breath when Ms. Ana Romero, tall and statuesque with a clipboard in hand, called out in a clipped voice, "Ms. Dela Cruz. Mr. Villareal will see you now."

Isabelle rose, murmuring a thank you, and followed her down the silent, marble-tiled corridor that led to the CEO's office. Her heart thumped against her ribcage with the rhythm of panic and sheer disbelief. She wasn’t prepared—not in the way polished corporate professionals usually were. But there was no turning back.

The office was cavernous and sleek. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the skyline, and behind a large mahogany desk sat Damian Villareal. He didn’t look up immediately, his eyes fixed on a document. Even seated, his presence was imposing—broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and crisp in a tailored navy suit.

Isabelle cleared her throat gently. He finally looked up, his eyes sharp and unreadable.

"You're late."

She nodded once, resisting the urge to flinch. "I am, sir. I take full responsibility."

He arched a brow. "Most applicants would make excuses."

"I won’t insult your time by doing that."

Silence stretched between them. Something flickered in his gaze—curiosity, perhaps? Isabelle couldn’t be sure. Damian motioned for her to sit.

"Why should I hire someone who can’t manage a schedule?"

"Because being late this morning doesn’t define my work ethic. It was a bad morning—not a habit. What does define me is persistence, adaptability, and the need to prove myself. I’m not here to charm you. I’m here because I need this job, and I’m prepared to earn it."

The room seemed to hold its breath. Damian studied her with a kind of slow deliberation that made her skin prickle.

"Tell me about your previous job."

She did—concise but honest. She spoke of the long hours, the sudden downsizing that cost her the position, and her late mother whose hospital bills had buried her in debt. None of it was sugar-coated. She had no luxury of pride.

And oddly, that seemed to disarm him.

"You’re not what I expected," he said finally.

"Is that a good thing?"

"I haven’t decided yet."

Damian stood and crossed to the window, back to her. He spoke without turning around. "If I offer you the job, your life will not get easier. It will get harder. I run this company like a machine—efficient, precise. Mistakes are not tolerated. Neither is mediocrity. Can you handle that?"

Isabelle straightened her shoulders. "Yes, sir."

Another pause. Then: "You start tomorrow. Six-thirty sharp. Ms. Romero will have you sign the paperwork. Don’t be late again."

And just like that, the interview was over.

She stepped out of the office half in a daze, heart pounding, pulse singing with relief and disbelief. Ms. Romero offered a tight smile as she handed over the HR packet.

"He must’ve seen something in you," she muttered, as though puzzled.

So was Isabelle.

But she didn’t question it. She had been given a lifeline, and she would hold onto it with both hands.

---

She barely remembered the elevator ride down, only the way her knees trembled when she finally stepped onto the street. Manila’s afternoon heat pressed down on her, but inside she felt oddly light. She found a quiet bench under a tree by the corner café and dialed Carla.

"You won’t believe what just happened," Isabelle said when her best friend picked up.

"He hired you?"

"Yes!"

Carla let out a cheer. "I told you! You’re a warrior, Belle."

"I don’t understand it. I was late, Carla. I was sure I blew it."

"Maybe that’s what made you stand out. You told the truth. When was the last time a CEO met someone who didn’t try to kiss up to them?"

Isabelle exhaled, emotion catching in her throat. "I was so scared. And then... he just offered it to me."

"Well, thank the universe, or whatever angel is looking out for you. Maybe your mom’s pushing fate around up there."

Isabelle smiled faintly. The mention of her mother still hurt, but not in the same paralyzing way. Not today.

"So, what now?" Carla asked.

"Now I prepare. I read everything they gave me. I figure out what I’m walking into. And I do whatever it takes to stay afloat."

---

That evening, Isabelle sat on the edge of her modest bed, her apartment still cluttered with the remnants of survival—half-repaired electronics, a small pile of unpaid bills, an untouched grocery list. She opened the employment packet and began reading the company rules, guidelines, and expectations.

Villareal Holdings was more intimidating on paper than in person. Confidentiality clauses. Precision timing. Zero tolerance for mistakes. She felt as though she’d been hired not for a job, but for boot camp.

Still, she read late into the night, underlining notes, repeating names of departments, memorizing building floor plans. Her highlighters marked sections with surgical precision. Her past might have been chaotic, but her determination had always been organized.

She reached for the framed photo of her mother, whispering, "I got the job, Ma. I’ll make you proud."

Tears welled in her eyes but didn’t fall. She had no more time to break down. Tomorrow marked a new beginning.

---

Meanwhile, back in his office, Damian stood staring at the skyline. He hadn’t touched the espresso Ms. Romero had left on his desk. Instead, he kept replaying Isabelle’s expression—the earnest fire in her voice, the way she had looked him in the eye and owned her failure.

He rarely made impulsive decisions. He hated unpredictability. But something about her—the absence of pretense, the quiet strength—had made him curious.

He sat back in his chair and pulled her resume toward him again. It wasn’t impressive. A few years of mid-level admin work. A state university diploma. Volunteer work at a neighborhood cooperative. And yet, she had commanded the room for a brief moment.

His mind drifted—memories of a time when he still believed in potential rather than pedigree. Before betrayal taught him better. Before Cassandra.

"You're not what I expected," he murmured again to himself.

He didn’t need another assistant. He needed someone who could survive his world. And oddly, he had the sense that she just might.

"Let’s see what you’re made of, Isabelle Dela Cruz," he said under his breath.

And for the first time in a long while, Damian Villareal allowed himself the possibility of change.