The Ghost in the Room
Two Weeks Later
Adrian's POV
"Next, 15 to 18," the woman's voice rang out, sharp and professional. The group stood up, files clutched in their hands, and disappeared behind the door that led to the interview hall.
I shifted in my chair, my fingers tugging nervously at my tie. My palms were damp, and I could feel the sweat crawling down my spine under my shirt. I hated interviews. No… what I hated more was rejection. I had promised myself this would be my last attempt for the year. If I failed this time, I'd just go back to Kings Bar and keep stacking glasses for drunkards who never remembered my name.
I glanced around the room, trying to distract myself. Dozens of applicants filled the waiting area, each one clutching resumes, portfolios, and false confidence. Their fake smiles reminded me of masks people wore when they knew they were about to be judged.
The lady sitting beside me caught my eye. She was tapping her foot rapidly, her hands twisting her file over and over. She looked like she could bolt any second.
I leaned slightly toward her. "Hi, I'm Adrian Sterling," I said, forcing a smile as I extended my hand.
She blinked at me, startled, before managing a weak smile. "I'm Thelma Conti." She shook my hand quickly, her grip a little shaky.
"You look like you're about to run away," I said lightly.
Thelma let out a small chuckle, her voice trembling. "I'm just… nervous. I've been to too many interviews, and it's always the same. Either I get rejected because I don't have the right 'connections' or… because I refuse to do what some of those top men want from me. It's exhausting. I really hope this one's different."
Her words hit me like a stone. I knew that feeling… getting close, then falling flat, again and again. I'd lived in rejection so long that it felt like home. People didn't care about your talent or your dedication. They only cared about what you had to offer them… your body, your family's money, your connections. If you didn't have that, you didn't matter.
"I get it," I admitted softly. "I told myself this is my last one for the year. If I don't get accepted, I'm done. No more. I don't think I can handle any more rejection."
Thelma's eyes softened with sympathy. "So we've both developed a phobia of rejection," she said with a dry laugh.
I chuckled too, even though it wasn't really funny. I noticed the number tag clipped to her blouse… 19. I checked mine. 20.
"Looks like we're going in together," I said, pointing at her tag. "You're 19, I'm 20. Maybe that's a good sign."
Her lips curved into a small but genuine smile. "Thanks, Adrian. You're really nice."
Before I could reply, two women in sleek black skirts and employee badges walked past us, coffee cups in hand. Their voices carried easily through the quiet room.
"Did you hear what's happening today?" the first one whispered.
"What? About the interview?" the second asked.
"The boss is sitting in. He's conducting the interviews himself."
The second woman nearly choked on her drink. "What?! That's insane! If he's there, nobody's getting hired. He's ruthless. I pity these poor applicants."
Their voices faded as they disappeared down the hall, but their words clung to me like a curse. I turned to Thelma, and I could tell she was thinking the same thing. We're doomed.
The air in the waiting room grew heavier after that. My legs wouldn't stop bouncing, and Thelma bit her lip so hard I thought she'd draw blood.
The woman's voice broke the silence again. "Next, 19 to 24."
That was us.
Thelma stood up on shaky legs, and I followed. We walked toward the heavy wooden doors, passing by the group that had just exited. Their faces told me everything… they looked crushed, hollow, like they had just walked through fire and been burned.
My heart was pounding so loud I was sure everyone could hear it.
We stepped into the interview room, and for a second, the world stopped.
The air was cold, the kind of cold that didn't come from air conditioning but from power. A long table stretched across the room, lined with sharp-eyed panelists in suits. But none of them mattered. Not the man scribbling notes, not the woman with the icy stare, not even the HR head glancing at her files.
Because at the head of the table sat him.
Dominic Moretti.
My chest constricted, and I nearly dropped my file. My knees wobbled. My vision blurred. It felt like I'd been sucker punched.
What the hell was he doing here?
I had dreamed of him, obsessed over him, thought about him in ways I couldn't even admit to myself. And now… now he was sitting right in front of me. Not in a magazine. Not on TV. Not in my memories. But here. In the flesh. In control.
He hadn't aged a day. In fact, he looked even more powerful, sharper, colder. His suit clung perfectly to his broad shoulders, his dark eyes glinting with something dangerous.
The room tilted. I was going to faint.
My feet glued themselves to the floor. I just stood there, staring like an idiot, as if I'd seen a ghost.
And then his voice cut through the silence. That deep, husky voice that had haunted me for years.
"Have you seen a ghost or something?" Dominic asked, his lips curling into the faintest smirk.
The sound of his voice made my stomach flip, my body betraying me. My throat went dry, and the only word I could manage was a stutter. "N-no, I'm… sorry."
Realizing I was the only one still standing, I scrambled into my chair so fast it nearly screeched against the floor. My hands shook as I clutched my file to my laps.
The woman sitting beside Dominic… the HR head… looked at me with a raised brow. "Your file," she said curtly, her hand extended.
"Oh… yes, right," I muttered, nearly tripping as I jumped back to my feet. My fingers fumbled as I handed over my documents, trying not to look at Dominic. Trying not to notice how his eyes were still on me, sharp, burning, unreadable.
I sat back down quickly, my pulse hammering.
The room was silent except for the sound of papers being shuffled. Everyone else seemed composed, but I could feel the weight of Dominic's gaze on me like chains. My stomach churned, my chest tight, and all I could think was…
What is he doing here? Why him? Why now?
I prayed silently, begging whatever power was listening to keep me calm, to keep me from throwing up my intestines right there in the middle of the interview.
But the truth was undeniable.
Dominic Moretti wasn't just here. He was in charge.
And for me… that was the worst news of all.