Three Years of Loving You, Now I Choose the Empire

A L Y S S A

Desperation makes people do crazy things.

But never did I think I would find myself in this position.

Allow me to take you back to the beginning.

Here I am, sitting in the dark, laptop laid out in front of me, watching the screen flicker back at me as if it's mocking me, being the only light source in my shoebox apartment. The walls feel closer every night, as if reminding me that this is no better than a cage. My neighbours fight through them, laugh through them, live through them, while I just sit here… scrolling through job listings like a machine that’s out of batteries.

I've been at this for hours, to the point where my eyes sting. The longer I search for a job, the more every listing feels like the same wall of disappointment. Too high qualifications with degrees and certificates I don't have. I never had the privilege of going to university like I always wanted. The best I could do was online courses in business admin, graphic design, digital media, that sorta thing.

So it's clear to me that in a competitive pool of applicants, I'm not enough...

But unfortunately, I have to be, I have to find something.

Mom's hospital bills are due. Again. They were due last week, actually, but I had to beg them for an extension. One more week, I said. One more chance... And the nurse on the phone... her voice was soft, almost kind, but not enough to hide the edge of finality when she told me they couldn’t keep Mom’s room forever. How do you respond to that? To someone reminding you that your mother’s life is tied to the amount of money you don’t have?

Her chronic illness is hard to treat, and we don't have the resources to get her the help she needs to get well again. The local hospitals are doing what they can, and even that is way too expensive...

I huff sharply and shake the thoughts away.

I can’t think about it. Not the machines breathing for her. Not the doctors whispering words like “low chance” and “quality of life” when they think I’m not listening. My stomach twists at the thought, and I press my fingers into my temples, like I can stop the panic from clawing its way up my throat. Think, Alyssa. There has to be something. Some miracle job, some open door I just haven’t noticed yet...

And then...

Ping.

The sound makes me jump. My inbox lights up with a new message. I glance at it, expecting the usual junk: spam, discounts, someone trying to sell me another streaming service I can’t afford. But it's something else entirely, making my eyes freeze on the subject line:

Interview Invitation – Valentino Enterprises.

My first thought: scam.

It has to be.

I never applied to Valentino Enterprises. Didn’t even think about applying. People like me don’t work for companies like that. They’re too… prestigious, too untouchable... even the qualifications for a receptionist or assistant are way too high.

Still, I click. Because what else do I have to lose?

Dear Miss Hart,

We are pleased to invite you for an interview at our main office tomorrow at 10 AM sharp. Please confirm your attendance. We look forward to hearing from you.

- Mrs. Valentino

The Mrs Valentino?

Meaning one of the co-owners of the company?

That’s it. No job description, no mention of my resume. Just a time, a place, and a signature.

My skin prickles with chills, like the red flags are practically waving themselves in my face. This isn’t how interviews work. This isn’t how anything works. And why would Mrs Valtenino reach out to me herself? That woman and her husband are filthy rich; I'm sure she has people to handle interviews for her. So why reach out herself...

No, of course, this is a scam. I should delete it and pretend I never saw it. Something like this is too good to be true.

But then my eyes land on the stack of medical bills spilling across the kitchen table, to the top envelope that is already stamped in red: FINAL NOTICE. $8,830. My purse sits nearby, a receipt sticking out from the side; the refill for Mom’s meds. Just that one bag of pills cost more than I made in two weeks at the café.

And suddenly my hand is trembling.

What if it is true...

Before I can talk myself out of it, I begin typing out an email in response, shaking my head a few times with my heart racing in my chest.

Dear Mrs Valentino

Thank you for reaching out. I appreciate your offer. I will see you tomorrow. Looking forward to meeting you as well.

- Alyssa Hart

It's brief, but the message is clear. Tomorrow I will be meeting Mrs Valentino...

What's the worst that can happen?