Chapter 3: Application Result

The automated response from Velour Innovations arrived at 2:47 AM on a Thursday morning. Ariana wasn't sleeping, she hadn't slept much since submitting her application two days ago, so she saw the notification light up her phone screen while she lay in the darkness of her studio apartment.

She almost didn't open it.

But her thumb moved of its own accord, and suddenly she was reading the email for the hundredth time that day, except this time it was different. This time it had actual words. Actual information.

Dear Ariana,

Thank you for your interest in our testing program. After reviewing your application, we would like to invite you to attend an in-person interview at our headquarters. This will be an opportunity for us to discuss the role in detail and determine if you are the right fit for our team.

Interview Date: Saturday, October 15th

Time: 2:00 PM

Location: Velour Innovations, 47 Sterling Tower, Downtown

Please confirm your attendance by replying to this email. Formal attire is requested.

We look forward to meeting you.

Best regards,

The Velour Innovations Team

Formal attire.

Ariana read those two words three times. Formal attire. Like this was a legitimate job interview. Like she was applying to be an accountant or a marketing executive, not a sex toy tester.

She set her phone down on her chest and stared at the ceiling of her cramped apartment. The paint was peeling in one corner. She'd been meaning to fix that for months. There was a water stain from last winter's leak. The radiator hissed and clanked at irregular intervals, keeping her awake most nights.

This was her life. This was what she came home to after eleven-hour days of exhaustion and desperation.

And now she had an interview at Velour Innovations in forty-eight hours.

She replied to the email immediately: "I confirm my attendance. Thank you for the opportunity."

Professional. Businesslike. Like someone who did this kind of thing all the time.

Her phone rang at 7:15 AM. She was already awake, already at the nursery, already wiping snot off a toddler's face when it buzzed in her pocket. She checked it during her break and saw her sister's name on the screen.

"Hey, Mira," she answered, stepping outside into the October cold.

"Ari, they want to do another round of tests. The doctors said my recovery is slower than expected." Mira's voice was small, tired. Even through the phone, Ariana could hear the defeat in it. "They're talking about extending my stay."

Ariana's stomach dropped. "How much longer?"

"Maybe another month. Maybe more. They won't know until they run the tests."

A month. Maybe more. That was another $15,000 at minimum. Maybe $20,000.

"It's okay," Ariana heard herself say, even though nothing was okay. "We'll figure it out. Don't worry about it."

"Ari, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know this is....."

"I said don't worry," Ariana cut her off. "I'm handling it. Just focus on getting better, yeah?"

After they hung up, Ariana sat on the curb behind the nursery for five minutes and let herself feel the weight of it. The crushing, suffocating weight of responsibility. Of being the only one holding everything up. Of being one mistake away from everything collapsing.

Then she stood up, brushed off her jeans, and went back inside to wipe more noses.

***

The library shift that afternoon felt longer than usual. Ariana kept catching herself staring into space, her mind somewhere else entirely. Claire noticed, but didn't comment. She'd stopped commenting weeks ago, stopped trying to make small talk. Pity had given way to something like resignation, the understanding that Ariana was drowning and there wasn't much anyone could do about it.

By Friday night, Ariana had worked a double at the nursery, a full shift at the library, and had stopped by the hospital to sit with Mira for an hour. Her body moved on autopilot. Her mind was somewhere else.

She was thinking about Saturday. About the interview. About what she was about to do.

Around 11 PM, she finally made it back to her apartment. It was cold, she'd turned the heat down to save money, so she wrapped herself in a blanket and sat on her bed, staring at her closet.

Formal attire.

She owned exactly two things that could be considered formal: a black pencil skirt she'd bought for her college graduation five years ago, and a white blouse that had a small stain near the collar if you looked too closely. She had black flats that pinched her toes. No jewelry except for the small silver cross her mother had given her before she died.

She pulled out the skirt and blouse and laid them on her bed, examining them critically. They would have to do. They were the best she had.

Then she showered.....a long, hot shower that used up most of her hot water for the month, and stood in front of her bathroom mirror in nothing but a towel.

She barely recognized herself these days. Not just because of the exhaustion and the weight loss and the dark circles. But because there was something missing from her reflection. Some spark. Some sense of self that had been ground down by years of survival mode.

She dried off and pulled on an old t-shirt and sweatpants. It was cold, and she didn't have the energy to do anything else.

Before bed, she found herself doing something she hadn't done in years: she googled "Velour Innovations."

The website was exactly as she remembered it from the application process. Sleek, minimalist, professional. There were photos of the building, all glass and steel and modern architecture. There was information about their product lines, their commitment to quality, their dedication to innovation.

But there was nothing about the testing program. Nothing about what she would actually be doing.

She clicked through to the "About Us" section and found a section on leadership. The CEO was listed as Dominic Ashford, age 29, with an impressive bio: "Dominic Ashford took control of Ashford Enterprises at age eighteen following the passing of his father. Under his leadership, the company has expanded into multiple sectors, including luxury goods, real estate, and innovative consumer products. Known for his exacting standards and visionary approach, Dominic has built Ashford Enterprises into a multimillion-dollar conglomerate."

There was a photo. Ariana stared at it for a long time.

He was handsome in an intimidating way. Sharp jawline. Dark eyes. Black hair. He wasn't smiling in the photo. He looked cold. Calculated. Like someone who didn't smile often and didn't see the point when he did.

She closed the laptop and told herself to stop spiraling.