Leila's fingers hover over her laptop trackpad as she scrolls through job listings. The room is warm with afternoon light, and Sofia lounges nearby, flipping through a fashion magazine with one headphone in.
"Most of these require fluent Italian," Leila mumbles, clicking between tabs. "I need something part-time, flexible, preferably in English."
Sofia props herself on one elbow. "Try corporate internships or global firms based here. Some of them run everything in English."
Leila's eyes catch on a listing that makes her pause.
Sinclair Enterprises – Junior Project Manager (Part-Time, International Student Friendly)
She tilts her head slightly, lips pursed.
"Sinclair…" she murmurs under her breath. The name feels oddly… sharp. Like something she should remember but can't quite place.
Sofia glances up. "What about it?"
"Nothing," Leila says quickly, waving it off. "Just… an unusual name."
Sofia shrugs. "Probably some old-money European empire. They all sound like designer labels."
Leila clicks apply without further thought. It's just a name.
Two days later, her phone buzzes during a quiet moment in the dorm.
"Dear Ms. Leila Zaman, we are pleased to invite you for an interview at Sinclair Enterprises, Milan HQ…"
She rereads it twice. Her pulse quickens.
"Sofia!" she calls, eyes wide with disbelief. "I—I got an interview!"
Sofia bolts up. "Wait, what? That Sinclair? Holy—what are you gonna wear?!"
Leila laughs nervously. "I don't know. Something… professional but not too formal? I don't want to look out of place."
"Darling," Sofia says dramatically, grabbing her by the shoulders. "You are about to walk into one of the most powerful empires in Italy. We are not leaving this up to your modest closet. We're going shopping."
The Day of the Interview
Leila stands in the gleaming lobby of Sinclair Enterprises, the marble under her feet polished like ice, the ceiling towering above with chandeliers that drip modern elegance.
Her outfit is crisp: tailored navy-blue slacks, a high-neck cream blouse, her scarf pinned neatly. Minimal makeup, a swipe of lip tint, and eyes that quietly hold their nerves.
She clutches her file of documents to her chest like a lifeline.
The receptionist offers her a kind smile. "Ms. Zaman? You may head to the 23rd floor. Room 2310."
She nods, whispering a thank you, and enters the elevator. Each floor she passes feels like a heartbeat.
Don't be intimidated, she tells herself. You've worked hard for this.
What she doesn't know is: behind a tinted-glass wall across the floor she's about to step into…
Elias is standing with his back half-turned, watching the monitors as the elevator opens. His expression is unreadable.
"She's here," Kai says lightly from behind him.
Elias doesn't respond.
But something in his stillness speaks louder than words.