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Chapter 3 - The Interview

The silence on the phone was so deep I could hear my own heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. Thump-thump-thump. It was so loud I was sure he could hear it too.

"Who. Are. You."

His voice wasn't loud. It was quiet. The kind of quiet that comes right before a bomb goes off. I had one shot. If I sounded like a scared kid, he'd hang up and I'd be dead in the water. I had to be someone else. I had to be the woman I was going to become.

I forced my voice down, making it steady. Cold. Like his.

"I'm the person who knows things she shouldn't," I said, my grip on the phone so tight my knuckles turned white. "And I'm offering you a partnership."

A low, humorless sound came from the other end. It wasn't a laugh. It was the sound a predator makes when it finds something curious. "Partnerships are built on trust. Not anonymous messages."

"Trust is earned," I fired back, parroting something I'd heard my father say in a hundred business meetings. "Check warehouse 7B. Then we'll talk about trust."

Another pause. This one felt different. He was thinking.

"Stay on the line," he commanded.

I heard a faint click, then the sound of his voice, muffled, giving a quick, sharp order to someone else. "Send a team to the south docks. Warehouse 7B. Now."

Then he was back. His breath was a soft whisper against the receiver. We sat in silence for what felt like a lifetime. I could picture him in some huge, cold office, waiting. I was on a park bench, watching pigeons fight over a crumb, trying not to throw up.

This was it. My entire future hinged on a piece of gossip I'd overheard while serving coffee.

My phone buzzed. An alert flashed on the screen. It was from a news app.

BREAKING: Police Respond to Reports of Disturbance at South Docks…

My heart leaped into my throat. It was happening. It was real.

A second later, his voice was back in my ear. It was different. There was a new edge to it. Not warmer. Sharper. Like I'd just become interesting instead of annoying.

"The address is 1 Monarch Tower. Penthouse. Be here in one hour." The words were clean, precise. A command.

Then the line went dead.

He'd hung up.

For a second, I just sat there, the phone still pressed to my ear. The pigeons cooed. A kid on a skateboard rolled past.

I'd done it. I'd actually done it.

A wild laugh bubbled up in my chest, half terror, half triumph. I slapped a hand over my mouth to keep it in. I felt crazy. I probably looked crazy.

Now I had to get to Monarch Tower. In one hour. Looking like I belonged there.

I practically ran back to the shopping district, my mom's credit card feeling like a weapon in my hand. I didn't have time to be subtle. I burst into the first fancy boutique I saw.

A saleswoman with a pinched face glided over. She looked me up and down, taking in my jeans and messy hair. Her smile was as fake as my father's promises. "Can I help you, miss?"

"I need an outfit," I said, trying to catch my breath. "For a business meeting. A… powerful meeting."

Her eyes flickered with disbelief. "Of course. Our summer collection is just over."

"No," I said, cutting her off. My voice had a new force behind it. The force of a woman who had just called a king. "I need something that says 'don't mess with me.' Not 'I'm going to a garden party.'"

She blinked, surprised. Then her professional mask slipped back on. "Right this way."

She led me to a section of the store with darker colors and sharper lines. I pointed to a simple, black dress. It was severe. Elegant. It looked like armor.

"That one. In my size. Now."

Thirty minutes later, I was changed. The dress fit perfectly. I'd twisted my hair up into a tight knot and even put on a slash of dark red lipstick I'd bought at the counter. I looked in the mirror.

I didn't look eighteen. I looked ancient. I looked like I knew things.

I looked like I could make a deal with the devil.

I grabbed my bag and ran for the door, the bell jingling behind me. The saleswoman called out, "Good luck with your meeting!"

I didn't look back. "Thanks! I'm gonna need it!" I yelled over my shoulder.

I hailed a taxi, sliding into the back seat. "Monarch Tower. And step on it."

The driver, a guy with a kind face and a faded baseball cap, glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Big job interview?"

"Something like that," I breathed, watching the city fly by.

"You'll do great, kid," he said cheerfully. "Just remember to smile. Everyone likes a nice smile."

A hysterical laugh got stuck in my throat. If I smiled at Leonard Cruz, he'd probably have me thrown out a window.

We pulled up to the towering glass spire of Monarch Tower. It looked like it was scratching the sky. I paid the driver, my hands trembling again.

"Break a leg!" he called as I got out.

I walked into the lobby. It was all marble and silence, so quiet I could hear the click of my new heels on the floor. A security guard with a neck thicker than my waist stood behind a massive desk.

"I'm here to see Mr. Cruz," I said, my voice echoing in the huge space.

He didn't even look up. "Do you have an appointment?"

This was it. The moment I got thrown out on my butt.

"He's expecting me," I said, praying it was true.

The guard finally looked up. His eyes scanned me, then dropped to a screen on his desk. His expression didn't change. He picked up a phone, muttered something too low for me to hear, and listened.

He nodded and hung up. "Penthouse elevator. To your right."

Just like that. The doors opened. I stepped inside. The elevator was all polished brass and mirrors. It smelled like money and power. There was only one button. PH.

I pressed it.

The elevator didn't go up. It shot up. My stomach dropped to my feet. The numbers flew by. 10… 20… 30…

The doors slid open without a sound.

I was standing in the penthouse. The room was huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows showing the entire city spread out like a toy model. It was beautiful. And it was completely, utterly empty.

There was no furniture. No art on the walls. Just a vast, empty space of polished concrete.

My heart sank. He'd stood me up. This was a joke. A cruel trick.

Then a door I hadn't seen on the far side of the room opened.

But it wasn't Leonard Cruz who walked out.

It was a woman. She was probably in her fifties, with sharp grey hair cut in a severe bob and glasses on a chain around her neck. She wore a stylish pantsuit and held a tablet in her hands. She looked like the scariest teacher I'd ever had, mixed with a librarian who knew all your secrets.

She looked me up and down, her expression completely unreadable.

"It you?" she asked, her voice crisp and efficient.

I just nodded, too confused to speak.

She gave a short, satisfied nod. "Good. The dress is acceptable. The shoes are a practical choice. Follow me. Mr. Cruz is a very busy man. You'll be dealing with me."

She turned and walked back through the door without waiting for me.

I stood there, frozen, in the middle of the empty, multi-million dollar penthouse.

This wasn't the devil.

This was his secretary.

 

 

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