裏切りの家

I'm nervous. 

It's my first job interview since I finally became a certified advocate, and I feel like sitting here, in the waiting lounge of Southerford Inc., I'm this close to spilling the contents of my stomach all over the place. 

This close.

I'm practicing breathing in through the nose, breathing out through the mouth, closing my eyes to concentrate, basically doing anything to calm my frizzling nerves, but the saying 'it's easier said than done' never felt truer to me than at this moment.

One at a time, people are being called in through the door right in front of my eyes, some going in as if getting this job means everything to them, others looking like they'd rather be pooping in a forest and wiping their butts clean with poison ivy than be here.

I blow a loud breath through my mouth.

"Come on...-"

"-Gard, Priscilla?"

I feel my pumping organ jerk at the woman officer in charge of us interviewees calling my name.

"Y-Yes. Yes, that would be me," I mumble, shooting up from the waiting chair, but refining my reaction when a few people eye me strangely, then pick up my file and walk to the door that awaits my doom as if my heart didn't just book a flight to my head.

I almost wring the folder in my hands as soon as the door closes behind me.

I can't believe my eyes. 

I'm in an interview room in Southerford Inc., one of the leading tech giants in the country, opposite a bench of five, venerable men, all eyeing me like I'm someone from among them when I'm not. Because I? I'm just a recently certified advocate who's only just arrived in the Six, and who's been waiting for a job approval for six whole months.

A little over that, actually.

"Ms. Priscilla Gard?" one of the men, an aging man, the neatest one could imagine, with white hair parted down the side and gelled in place, prompts when I just stand there, frozen by the door, waiting for someone to tell me this isn't just some mistake on their part.

Because I know my heart won't be able to handle it if they did.

I can feel how big my eyes get when they say my name. I cough softly. "Yes, sir."

"Please, have a seat."

I walk over to the cushiony chair in the centre of the room, a safe distance away from the long bench behind which my interviewers sit, hoping my walk isn't as clumsy and awkward to them as it is to my mind.

I'm cringing in my head the whole time.

When I'm finally seated, another one of them asks, "Morning, Ms. Gard. Shall we begin?"

I clear my throat. Here goes nothing. "Yes, sir."

* ^ * ^ * ^ *

The questions literally go from, "Tell us about yourself", and "Walk us through your CV" to "What role do you intend to play in a team?" and "What's your management style?"

My mind's never been more of a mess. That is official.

Because currently, I'm trying to find the best possible answer to their newest question: "What do you think you can bring to the role of a law consultant in our company?"

Good question, sir. Real good.

"I've been inclined towards studying corporate law in a great deal of depth since I began studying," I explain slowly, "and I think working as a law consultant for your company, I will have a lot to add to the team. I can see from the job description that this role will require a lot of teamwork, and I love being a part of a team (lie), and I think that my communication skills add a lot of value here (total lie). During my internship at JV Firms, I was working with offices in different parts of the state."

Somewhere in between my little speech, I hear the door behind me open and close. Someone's come in. It takes everything in me to not turn back and see who it is. 

I hold my breath still when the five interviewers exchange hushed words with each other, but then something catches my eye from the left, and I think I pretty much forget that I even need to breathe.

He was the one who came in when I was speaking?

Oh. My. God.

I don't know what I've done to earn God's wrath, but how and why do I deserve this? Why is the founder and CEO of Southerford Inc., Gerrard Southerford, witnessing my interview? He wasn't there for anybody else's interview. Why mine-

Oh my god...

Walking up to the bench, he turns to look at me. My face heats up when it realizes that the face of so many magazine covers is right in front of me. His eyes are dangerous and glinting blue, his neck and hands sporting all the tattoos I already know he has, his suit covering up the rest of them all over his body.

He's just 24, I know because he's famous for being the founder of a leading tech giant at such a young age, so he's pretty much all across the internet, but now that I'm seeing him in the flesh, I feel my cheeks getting warm. He's so much more good looking than those magazines can ever reckon.

But I swear I see something akin to disdain or disapproval in his eyes when he studies me from head to toe before nodding at the other interviewers and snatching my CV from the table.

I feel like I've frozen in my chair at this point.

I'm holding my breath, waiting to see some sort of approval on the side of Gerrard's face as he leafs through my CV, but the neat old interviewer interrupts, "Thank you, Ms. Gard. You may wait in the lounge while we ponder over our thoughts."

I give them a shaky smile, nodding jerkily.

My eyes almost instinctively fall on Gerrard before I leave, but he's still going through my CV. I don't want to believe it, but I think he's grinding his jaw as he skims through my file. But I can't be sure, because his jaw's covered with that thick beard, and his eyes almost refuse to meet mine.

He's the last thing I see before I leave the room.

* ^ * ^ * ^ *

It's been half an hour, almost, since we've been waiting in the waiting lounge for the interviewers to come out with a verdict.

I'm biting my nails. I've almost twice cut into my lip on accident. But the wait keeps drawing longer. 

All around me, such experienced people sit, their CVs much more attractive than mine can ever boast to be. A part of me almost feels stupid for coming to this interview today, but then that other part of me wonders what I have to lose here; if I don't get the job, the interview will be a good learning experience. But if I do, now that would be-

The door opens up ahead, and none other than Gerrard Southerford himself steps out. There's something calm, yet calculated about the way he carries himself, in a way that demands your attention as if he owns it. His left hand hangs out in the pocket of his pressed, immaculate navy blue trousers, while his right hand holds a form.

All eyes in the waiting lounge are on him. All eyes. 

But his eyes- are on me.

I swear this man must be a mind reader or something, because his gaze is so decisive when he looks into my eyes, as if he knows what's going through my mind as I watch him.

And there's really only one thing my mind is saying to me right now: He's hawt.

I gulp.

"Priscilla Gard?" he says, short and crisp.

I can only nod.

He raises the form in his right hand to me. "Congratulations. You've been selected."

My eyes go huge. Huge.

Because as ecstatic and lightheaded as I am at being selected, i can't help but notice that there's nothing congratulatory about my boss's tone. Or his gaze as he watches me take the form from his hand. 

It makes me wonder what the hell I've actually signed up for when Gerrard gives me one last, long stare before moving around me and walking off without one more word to me.