Apartment Receptionist Novels & Stories

“Good morning. How may I assist you?” Elara stepped forward. “I’d like to meet the owner of REN Company.” The receptionist’s smile stiffened slightly. “Do you have an appointment?” “No,” Elara replied calmly. The receptionist glanced down, typing on her computer. “I’m sorry, Miss. Without an appointment, we can’t schedule a meeting.” “I only want to speak briefly,” Elara said. “This is important.” The receptionist looked up again. “I’m very sorry, Miss. Our boss is extremely busy. I suggest you return another time and make an official appointment.”

Just a man I hadn't spoken to since I'd walked out of his life with nothing but a voicemail and a half hearted apology that I'd rehearsed for weeks and still managed to botch completely. I pushed the door open. The reception area hadn't changed. Same minimalist aesthetic that screamed wealthy but tasteful, all cream walls and abstract art that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. The receptionist, a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses perched on her nose looked up from her computer with the practiced smile of someone who'd spent decades perfecting the art of polite disinterest. "Good afternoon. May I help you?" I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tr

The receptionist just like others is scantily clad. “Hi, I’m Kate. I applied for acting role here and I got an email that the interview will hold today.” She said calmly. The receptionist who was hell-bent on what she was writing on a clipboard raised her head and gave Kate a once-over. The receptionist muttered a laugh which made Kate to stare down at herself. “Welcome, Kate.” The woman who looks to be in her early thirties said. “Other interviewee have gone up. You’re a minute late.” She said, shocking Kate.

I looked like someone who'd driven here in a rage. The doors opened on the executive floor. Marble stretched out ahead of me. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A massive reception desk in the center with the Valentine logo etched in gold behind it. The kind of space designed to make you feel small. I walked toward the desk. The receptionist looked up. Young. Blonde. Blazer pressed to a crisp. Her smile was automatic. Professional. "Good morning. Do you have an appointment?" "I need to see Edward Valentine." She glanced at her screen. "Mr. Valentine's schedule is fully booked today. If you'd like, I can take your name and—"

The receptionist said. "By this time??? I don't want to see anyone!" I barked. Who the fuck is coming to my apartment at 9:00pm??? I heard her mumbling something to someone before she spoke again. "Sir, it's your personal assistant. Miss Sophia Parker." My whole body froze. She's here? Sophia's here? I was completely taken aback at the fact that she was here. What could she want so late? "Errr... send her up. No security checks."

A few minutes later she came out with an elegant looking woman-The manger To my surprise, the manager—a sharp woman named Brenda—looked at my worn shoes, looked at my tired eyes, and gave me a chance. "We need a receptionist," Brenda told me, tapping her nails against the counter. "You will answer phones, manage client bookings, and keep this front desk running. We do not tolerate drama, and we deal with very high-profile clients. Keep your head down, do your job well, and you have a week of trial. Understand?"

What I found was a third floor walkup above a dry cleaner on Asylum Avenue, with a frosted glass door, a waiting area containing two chairs and a dying plant, and a receptionist who looked like she had been answering phones in this office since before I was born. She looked up when I came in. “Do you have an appointment?” “No,” I said. “But I think Mr. Finch will want to speak with me. My name is Elena Whitmore.” She studied me for a moment with the particular expression of someone who has been trained to screen visitors without appearing to screen them. Then she picked up the phone, murmured something I couldn’t hear, and set it back down. “He’ll be with you in a few minutes,” she said.

Walking through the glass doors, she was immediately greeted by a well-dressed receptionist sitting behind a sleek, modern desk. “Good morning! How can I help you?” the woman asked with a warm smile. “I’m Penelope Lorenzo. I’m starting today,” she replied, returning the smile. The receptionist’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh, welcome! Mrs. Jenkins has been expecting you. If you follow me, I’ll take you to her office.” Penelope nodded and followed her down a well-lit hallway. Employees walked past them, some engaged in hushed conversations, others carrying files or typing on their phones. The air buzzed with productivity. It felt refreshing. It felt right.

“Mr. Grey, I’ve been working here long enough to know how things operate. We don’t make clerical errors, and we don’t allow walk-ins. If you don’t leave voluntarily, I’ll have to involve security.” His words sent a jolt of alarm through me, but I wasn’t ready to give up. “I understand your position,” I said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. “But if you could just make one call—just one—to confirm, I’d really appreciate it. I can’t leave without at least trying. Please.” The receptionist stared at me for a long moment, as though deciding whether or not I was worth his time. Finally, he picked up the phone, dialing a number with deliberate slowness.

The receptionist threw her a weird look that said, 'Are you stupid or something? “Did you lose it?” The woman asked. “Umm, no. I haven’t received one yet.” She told her. The woman frowned. “That’s weird. Can you give me your name and occupation, please?” The woman asked. “Lillian Adams, Alan King’s secretary.” She told her.