C4

​CHAPTER 4

​“Ms. Murphy, it’s not what it looks l—” I manage to articulate. My voice sounds small, trembling—something that seems to amuse her.

​“You seemed more... talkative on the subway,” she says, taking a slow step to the right, circling me like a predator assessing its prey. “Or at least, more willing to tumble into my arms. What happened to that urgency to escape, Camila? Did you realize there is no place in this city where you can hide from me if I don't want you to?”

​Her eyes, blue and sharp as diamonds, scan me without shame. It is not a professional gaze; it is a meticulous inspection that tracks my messy hair, my white blouse slightly wrinkled from the sprint, and my lips, which I bite nervously. I feel naked beneath her scrutiny, as if she could see not just my skin, but also the fear and confusion fighting inside me.

​“It was an accident,” I reply, trying to reclaim some dignity. “The train braked suddenly, and I... I didn't know who you were until now.”

​“Whether you knew who I was or not doesn't change what you felt, does it?” She stops dead in front of me, closing the distance until I can feel the heat radiating from her body. “I felt your heart galloping against my chest, little one. I felt how you trembled. And now here you are, in my office, working for me.”

​Amy extends a hand. For a second, I think she is going to touch my cheek, and my breath catches, but instead, she grabs the ID badge hanging around my neck. She yanks it gently, forcing me to lean toward her. Eye contact is unavoidable; her eyes are a blue storm from which I cannot escape.

​“Let me make something clear to you from the very first second,” she whispers, her warm breath brushing against my ear, sending a wave of heat straight to my core. “I don't care who you were before you walked through that door. Here, your time belongs to me, your efforts belong to me, and if you choose to stay, your absolute loyalty belongs to me. I do not tolerate mediocrity, I do not tolerate excuses, and above all, I do not tolerate my secretary being late.”

​“I’m sorry, the car wouldn't start and—”

​“I am not interested in your mechanical problems, Camila,” she interrupts with a coldness that hits me like a slap. “If arriving at eight means you have to leave at four in the morning and walk barefoot through the snow, you do it. At Apex Ink, we don't hire victims of circumstance; we hire solutions.”

​She lets go of my badge with a disdainful gesture. The piece of plastic slaps against my chest, reminding me of my place. The soft, protective Amy from the subway has vanished, replaced by a woman whose ambition and harshness are legendary in Manhattan. Yet, there is something in that hostility that I find strangely magnetic; it’s as if her rejection were a form of attention that I, in some twisted way, want to keep.

​Amy walks back to her black glass desk and sits down, crossing her long legs with an elegance that makes me feel clumsy and small. She leans forward, interlacing her long fingers over the desk.

​“Susana says you have potential; I think you just have luck,” she declares, opening a folder containing my resume. “You've worked in small offices—nothing that compares to the pace of New York, let alone mine. Why should I keep you here? What do you have that the other fifty candidates with master's degrees from Columbia begging for this job don't?”

​I stand in silence for a moment, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I think of my mother, my twin sisters in Venezuela, and the past-due bills on my nightstand. Necessity is a powerful engine, and right now, the fear of failure outweighs my fear of Amy Murphy.

​“Because I need this job more than any of them,” I tell her. This time my voice is firm, charged with a determination that seems to catch her off guard. “And because, after this morning, you already know I don't break easily. You can be as hard on me as you want, Ms. Murphy, but you won't find anyone who works harder than I do.”

​Amy arches a perfect eyebrow. For an eternal minute, the office falls into a tense silence. She doesn't break eye contact; it’s a silent duel, a battle of wills in which I refuse to be the first to blink. I can see a glimmer of curiosity in her blue gaze, a spark of respect she tries to hide behind her mask of coldness.

​“A brave answer,” she finally concedes, closing the folder with a sharp thud. “We will see if the facts back up your words.”

​She rises again and walks toward a side credenza where a designer espresso machine sits, looking like it belongs in a laboratory. She pours herself a cup of black coffee, no sugar, and the bitter aroma mixes with her perfume.

​“Rule number one: my coffee must always be ready at 7:45 AM. Not a minute before, not a minute after. Rule number two: you don't talk to the press, you don't talk to other departments about what happens in this office, and you don't talk to my cousin Susana unless it is strictly necessary. She is too soft, and I don't want her bad habits rubbing off on you.”