I walk into the interview room, and it is just him. He is seated behind a heavy-looking oak desk, on a single executive desk, with another chair across from him.
The way the chair is positioned looks intentional, as if to make the candidate feel intimidated, as if they are facing a trial, with the man opposite them as the judge.
An apt description, as most who had left the door left in tears, making it look like it is Dracula himself sitting on the other side.
The room, though painted in a muted ash coral oil, a warm color, looks barren and stoic, just like the face of the man sitting like a King on the other side.
His face is devastatingly handsome— broad, icy-blue eyes, a long, straight nose, and a sharply chiseled jaw. He is clean-shaven, the smoothness making his features look even harder, more sculpted.
His dark, lush mane spills free on his shoulders, thick and untamed, giving him a wildness you will never expect for a CEO of the Blackwell Dynasty.
He doesn't look like a corporate magnate but looks more like he belongs in the wild, just like his kind—the predators of the jungle.
His glacial stare freezes me by the door, halting me in my tracks. I wasn't expecting him to be looking.
My heart lurches violently into my throat, and for a split second, my composure shatters. I falter, my mind dragged brutally, mercilessly back into the past.
I had mentally prepared for this meeting, or at least thought I did, but no amount of preparation could have prepared me for the reality of seeing him again.
I could feel the paralysis creeping in. It has been seven years since I last saw those icy blue eyes, eyes that feel like staring into the deep ocean.
Staring into them feels like plunging into a raging storm. They wreak havoc on your system.
My body trembles as the mental padlock on the gate of my past cracks open, its rusted hinges groaning as the floodgates burst wide.
Rivers of bad memories flooded into my mind, eroding my heart, veins, and sanity with their toxicity.
I can't do this! The cry echoes in the chaos of my mind as the horrors of my past threaten to drown me.
I begin to hyperventilate, struggling to get air in. The walls seem to be inching closer, tightening around me, pressing in like a vice.
I reach blindly for the wall, clutching it like an anchor, my head bent, eyes squeezed shut as I fight for composure.
While I battle with my inner demons, he sits there, like he doesn't care, watching me with those piercing blue eyes.
Watching me fall apart at the seams
Is he laughing?
Is he enjoying this?
Watching my suffering…knowing he is responsible.
It has been seven years. Seven fucking years since that night.
Seven years could feel like hundreds of decades when you are living in hell.
Does he recognise me?
I bet he doesn't. A man like him, with so many women revolving around him, how can he remember the single woman whose life he ruined?
To him, I was nothing more than a passing moment, a blur, a forgettable face.
I wish I could claim the same luxury, but his face is etched on my mind, like a mark left by a permanent marker, hard to erase.
He is now—
A CEO?
I scoff bitterly at his eloquent title. Pained at the irony of life. While my life dwindled to ruin, his rose to the pinnacle of his career.
If only they knew.
I wonder what Forbes and the world would think when they realize that the young CEO everyone admires for his rare business acumen and brilliance is nothing more than a callous thug who resorts to cruel tactics to get what he wants.
Who would take what isn't offered and not give a damn who he hurt in the process?
I know I am not the only girl he has hurt, but he keeps getting away with it because of his family.
The Blackwells.
Rich, powerful, and untouchable, they have their fingers dipped into every sector of the city.
They control what happens in our city and are powerful enough to change laws and policies.
While panic surged like a volcano in my mind, consuming my senses, my hatred for the man a few feet away from me roared to the surface like a dark shadow, soaring like a dragon within the caged walls of my heart, waiting to unleash the rage that threatens to consume my soul.
I reminded myself why I am here. My quest for vengeance is the sole reason I have survived this long, and I am not going to let anything stop me.
Not even my own fears.
I will not give in to the panic. I need to regain control and push the memories back into the mental box.
Then I remembered.
My therapist taught me some mantras to recite whenever I have these panic attacks. She probably wouldn't be happy if she learns what I am up to.
The words go like this.
Safe. Calm. Passing.
Here. Now. Okay.
Breathe. Release.
I can handle this.
Softly, I whispered these words while doing a slow breath in and a more extended breath out.
Again.
And again.
Gradually, the vice around my lungs loosens, breathing slows, and I regain control, able to lift my head and breathe normally. Inside, I feel flushed and hot, but I ignore it and carry on.
I lift my head, straighten my shoulders, and force a mask of calm over the chaos still clawing at my insides.
Then I walked toward him, steady steps, more in control, and ready to get the interview out of the way.
When I get to the front of his desk, he has his head bent over what I assume is my file. He let me stand for another few minutes before he lifted his head to acknowledge me.
When our eyes met again, my heart surged against my throat. His eyes always startle me when I stare into their glacial cobalt depths.
I wait for a spark of recognition, that shift in the size of his pupils that speaks of familiarity, of meeting before, even if my memories can't seem to place you.
Nothing.
His expression is business-like, his thoughts masked. He has the perfect poker face.
I couldn't read a dime from his face.
And he is still infuriatingly gorgeous.
The years have done nothing harmful to his looks; if anything, he looks even more attractive and sexier—
More dangerous.
I shouldn't be noticing this, I growl inwardly, feeling irritated at myself for letting my thoughts stray into a dangerous territory.
I wait for him to say something about what he witnessed earlier—my brief mental breakdown, instead, he says.
"Are you annoyed with me?" His voice cuts through the silence.
I jumped at the sound of him speaking, not obviously. I hadn't realized that my thoughts had drifted or that my eyes had skirted away from his.
His question confuses me, not because he was wrong about being angry with him—I was raging furious—but how he knew.
Before I respond to his very odd question, something else strikes me as odd.
The texture of his voice.
Seven years ago, he sounded smooth and charming, carefree, the voice of someone accustomed to persuading and seducing people with effortless ease.
Now, his voice carries something heavier, a sense of responsibility, a deep bass of authority, and a smooth, silky texture.
It commands attention, even when he speaks causally, like now.
"Mm-hmm," he cleared his throat, jogging me out of my thoughts, and reminding me that I have yet to answer his question.
In his eyes, I see curiosity, like he is trying to figure me out, yet no trace of recognition. Either he is messing with me, or he has truly forgotten.
I don't know which one pisses me off the most: that he has forgotten, or that he is toying with me.
"What do you mean?"
"Your thoughts." His tone is light, almost conversational. "Earlier, you looked as if you were about to stab someone."
He is acting as if we are two strangers having an idle chat about the weather, when this is supposed to be an interview.
Very odd if you ask me.
I know the moment he is referring to, but I can't precisely answer him honestly. "I am sorry," I apologized instead, deflecting.
His gaze sharpens instantly, the intensity grows, as if he is trying to drill into my skull for the secrets hidden there.
I try not to squirm under his piercing gaze while asking myself what he sees when he looks at me.
The girl he destroyed or a stranger.
He leans back in his chair, relaxed, casual.
"The job is yours if you tell me."