chapter 2: The Privileged

My heels clicked against the polished floor of Morgan and Associates, each step echoing my racing heartbeat. Three months of job hunting had turned me into a master of fake confidence—back straight, chin up, dreams crumbling. I clutched my portfolio so tight my knuckles turned white, fighting the urge to run back to my car and cry.

“Please wait here with the other applicants,” the receptionist gestured to a row of chairs where four candidates sat, all wearing the same mask of desperation I’d perfected.

I smoothed my pencil skirt for the hundredth time and took a seat, studying my competition through sideways glances. Most looked fresh out of college like me, with wardrobes that screamed I maxed out my credit card for this suit. All except for one guy in a charcoal gray suit who walked in and, to everyone’s surprise, took a seat among us and lounged in his chair like he owned the place. He pulled out his phone and started scrolling, just like the rest of us. He caught my eye and smiled—not a nervous, “we’re-all-in-this-together” smile, but a confident grin that made my stomach flip. I quickly looked away, heat creeping up my neck. The last thing I needed was another Derek situation. Men with that much confidence usually had good reason to believe they could get away with anything.

“Mr. Alex Rodriguez?” the receptionist called.

Charcoal suit guy quietly stood up and walked into the interview room.

“Excuse me,” I spoke up, my voice sharper than intended. “I arrived thirty minutes before him.”

The receptionist gave me a practiced smile. “We have our own order of proceedings, Miss…”

“Martinez, Sonia.”

The woman next to me leaned in and whispered, “Don’t bother. He might know someone on the board.”

My stomach churned with acid. Of course. Another case of it’s not what you know, but who you know. He looked back at me and smirked just before disappearing into the interview room, his shoulders relaxed like he was walking into his own living room.

Memories of endless rejection emails flooded my mind. Each one a digital slap in the face: “We regret to inform you…” “While your qualifications are impressive…” “We’ve decided to move forward with other candidates…”

An hour crawled by. Two other candidates were called and emerged looking defeated. When Mr. Alex finally came out, he was grinning and shaking hands with the interviewer like they were old golf buddies.

“Miss Sonia Martinez?”

My turn. The interview was a blur of questions I’d rehearsed answers to for weeks. But the interviewer seemed distracted, checking his phone twice. I could feel my chances slipping away with each disinterested nod.

Three days later, I was sitting at O’Malley’s Bar, staring at my third rejection email of the week. The words “We regret to inform you” burned into my retinas as I ordered another drink. Mom’s voice echoed in my head: “You should have studied nursing.”

“Drowning your sorrows?”

I looked up to find Alex Rodriguez sliding onto the barstool next to me. The universe really did have a sick sense of humor.

“Do you make a habit of stalking rejected candidates?” I snapped, the alcohol making my tongue sharper than usual. Two glasses of wine and a shot of tequila had dissolved my filter completely.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Rejected? I thought the emails weren’t going out until tomorrow.”

“Well, surprise. Some of us already know we didn’t make the cut.” I raised my glass in a mock toast. “Congratulations on your new position, by the way. Your uncle must be thrilled.”

His face darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, please.” I laughed, but it sounded hollow even to my ears. “We all know why you got the call first. Must be nice having family in high places.”

He erupted in laughter, holding his stomach as he laughed. I looked around to see if there was a clown in the room making jokes. When I didn’t see any, I glared back at him— I must be the clown then.

Annoyed, I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, but the floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. A strong hand caught my elbow.

“You’re in no condition to drive,” Alex said.

I tried to pull away. “I’ll call a cab.”

“With what phone? I watched you drop yours in your beer about ten minutes ago.”

I fumbled through my purse. He was right. My phone was soaked, the screen dark and lifeless like my job prospects.

“Let me drive you home,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Consider it my privileged duty to help the less fortunate.”

“Was that supposed to be funny?”

“It got you to almost smile.”

I wanted to hate how steady his hand felt on my arm, how his cologne cut through the musty bar smell. But the room was spinning faster now, and pride was a luxury I couldn’t afford when I could barely stand.

“Fine,” I muttered. “But this doesn’t make us friends.”

The last thing I remembered clearly was sliding into his car, the leather seats impossibly soft. His voice said something about seatbelts. Then darkness.

I woke up hours later in my own bed, still fully dressed except for my shoes, which were neatly placed by my bedroom door. On my nightstand was a bottle of water, two aspirin, and a note:

“For the record, I got the job because I’ve been interning there since sophomore year. But thanks for assuming the worst. Rest well, princess. - Alex”

I crumpled the note, my cheeks burning with more than just a hangover. Somehow, his kindness felt worse than any rejection email.

My phone buzzed from inside a bag of rice—apparently Alex’s attempt to save it. One new email.

“Dear Ms. Sonia, we are pleased to inform you…”

My hands shook as I read further. They were offering me a position in their junior analyst program.

My eyes widened when I got to the signature part—Signed by CEO, Alex Rodriguez. His signature under it. What?!

I stared at my reflection in the black screen of my phone, remembering every awful thing I’d said to him at the bar. Every accusation. Every single comment.

And tomorrow, he wouldn’t just be the guy who saw me at my worst.

He’d be my boss.

The aspirin he’d left suddenly seemed like far too little medicine for this particular headache.