Chapter 2: The Interview That Was Not
The building is glass and steel, rising into the clouds like a promise or a threat. Allie stands on the sidewalk with her cheap heels sinking into a crack in the pavement, staring up at Volkov Tower until her neck hurts.
The twins are with Mrs. Chen from downstairs, who agreed to watch them for the morning in exchange for two weeks of free rent. Allie cannot afford a babysitter. She cannot afford the subway ride here. She is running on caffeine and terror and the desperate hope that this job, this one job, will be the answer to every problem she has ever had.
She smooths her skirt. It is navy blue, secondhand, slightly too big in the waist. Her blouse is white, ironed carefully at 5 AM while the twins slept. Her hair is pulled back so tight it gives her a headache. She looks professional. She looks competent. She looks nothing like the girl who danced in that nightclub five years ago.
The lobby is marble and silent. Security checks her ID three times. The elevator is glass, rising so fast her stomach drops. She watches the city shrink below her and thinks of Icarus, of flying too close to the sun.
The forty-seventh floor. Executive suites. A woman at a desk that probably costs more than Allie's car appraises her with cold eyes.
"Alessia Bennett?''
"Yes. I have an interview with"
"Mr. Volkov will see you now."
Allie freezes. "Mr. Volkov? I thought I was interviewing with HR. With... I thought this was for the executive assistant position?"
The woman's smile does not reach her eyes. "Mr. Volkov interviews all executive assistants personally. He is very... particular."
Particular. Allie turns the word over as she follows the woman down a hallway lined with art that probably belongs in museums. Particular could mean detail-oriented. It could mean difficult. It could mean the rumors are true, that Dominic Volkov is a control freak who has fired six assistants in two years, that no one can meet his impossible standards.
She should have researched more.
She should have prepared better. But she was so focused on getting here, on affording the train ticket and the babysitter and the courage to walk through those doors, that she did not think about who she would actually be working for.
The office is the entire corner of the building. Windows on two sides, a view that makes Allie dizzy. A desk the size of her apartment. And behind it, a man with his back to her, staring out at the city.
"Mr. Volkov," the receptionist says. "Alessia Bennett."
"Leave us."
The voice. Allie knows that voice. It lives in her dreams, in the space between waking and sleeping, in the dark corners of memory she tries not to visit. Low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. She knows that voice.
The man turns around.
Time stops.
He is older. Of course he is older. Five years have carved new lines into his face, have silvered the temples of his black hair, have weighted his shoulders with something that looks like exhaustion. But his eyes are the same. Grey as winter, sharp as broken glass. And they are looking at her with an expression she cannot read.
"You," he says.
Allie's mouth is dry. Her heart is hammering so loud she is sure he can hear it. "I... I am sorry, do we know each other?"
It is a lie. She knows it is a lie the moment it leaves her lips. She knows him. She has known him every day for five years, in the shape of her children's faces, in the weight of a stolen watch, in the phantom touch of hands on her skin.
But he cannot know her. He cannot. That night was anonymous, forgotten, meaningless to a man like him. She was one of many. She has to believe that, or she will fall apart right here on this expensive carpet.
Dom stares at her. He does not move. He does not blink. He just... stares, like he is trying to memorize her, like he is trying to understand if she is real.
"The perfume," he finally says. "Vanilla."
Allie's hand flies to her throat. She wears cheap drugstore body spray, the same scent she has worn since college because it reminds her of her mother. "I... yes. It is just... it is common, lots of people..."
"Sit down, Ms. Bennett."
It is not a request. Allie sits. Her knees are shaking. She clutches her resume, printed at the library, already wrinkled from her sweaty palms.
Dom moves around the desk. He moves like a predator, all controlled grace and coiled strength. He is wearing a suit that costs more than her annual salary, charcoal grey, perfectly tailored. He looks like power. He looks like danger. He looks exactly like she remembers, and nothing like she remembers, all at once.
He stops in front of her. Close enough that she can smell his cologne, something dark and expensive, nothing like the soap and whiskey she remembers from that night.
"Tell me about yourself," he says.
It is a standard interview question. She has prepared for this. She has practiced in the mirror, in the shower, while rocking Luna back to sleep at 3 AM. But she cannot remember any of it. She cannot remember her own name.
"I... I have a degree in business administration," she stammers. "From Georgia State. I have worked in corporate support for five years, most recently at Morrison Tech in Atlanta. I am organized, efficient, I type ninety words per minute, I am proficient in"
"Why did you leave Atlanta?"
The question cuts through her rehearsed speech like a knife. Allie blinks. "Excuse me?"
"Your resume says you left your previous position six months ago.
You have been unemployed since. Now you are in New York, interviewing for a job that pays significantly less than your previous salary, in a city with a cost of living three times higher. Why?"
Allie's jaw tightens. This is not fair. He is not supposed to ask personal questions. He is not supposed to look at her like he can see through her skin, like he knows every secret she has ever kept.
"Personal reasons," she says.
"Your children."
It is not a question. Allie's blood turns to ice. "How do you know about my children?"
"I know everything about everyone who walks through my door, Ms. Bennett." Dom's voice is flat, unreadable. "You have five-year-old twins. A boy and a girl. You are a single mother with no support system in New York. You need this job desperately. You will take any terms I offer, work any hours I demand, because you have no other choice."
Allie stands up. Her hands are shaking, but her voice is steady. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Volkov. I do not think this position is right for me."
She turns to leave. She does not know where she will go. She does not know how she will pay rent next month. But she will not be humiliated. She will not be a desperate woman begging for scraps from a man who
"Wait."
The word is rough, almost pained. Allie stops. She does not turn around.
"I am sorry," Dom says. The words sound strange in his mouth, like he does not use them often. "That was... inappropriate. Please. Sit down. Let us start again."
Allie should leave. Every instinct she has, every lesson she learned from raising two children alone in a world that wanted to break her, says to walk out that door and never look back.
But she thinks of Luna's face when she asked about daddies. She thinks of Leo's nightmares, the ones he will not talk about, the ones that leave him screaming in the dark. She thinks of the empty refrigerator and the eviction notice she managed to postpone and the watch in her jewelry box that ticks like a countdown.
She sits down.
Dom returns to his side of the desk. He does not look at her. He shuffles papers, clears his throat, adjusts his cufflinks. When he finally speaks, his voice is different. Softer. Almost human.
"Tell me about your children," he says. "Please."
It is the please that undoes her. Allie does not know why. Maybe because it sounds real. Maybe because she is tired of carrying everything alone.
"Leo and Luna," she says. "They are five. Twins, obviously. Leo is... he is serious. Old for his age. He worries about everything, especially his sister. He checks the locks at night. He makes sure we have emergency exits planned wherever we go." She smiles despite herself. "He is going to be a general someday. Or a very anxious architect."
"And Luna?"
"Luna is chaos." Allie laughs, the sound surprising her. "She is fearless. She talks to strangers. She climbs things she should not climb. She decided last week that she wants to be a pirate when she grows up, and also a ballerina, and also the president. She does not understand the word impossible."
Dom is very still. "They sound... remarkable."
"They are." Allie's voice cracks. She looks down at her hands. "They are the best thing I have ever done. And I am failing them. I moved here because I thought... I thought I could give them more. Better schools. Safer neighborhood.
A chance to not be the poor kids, the kids with no dad, the kids who wear hand-me-downs. But I am here, and I am terrified, and I do not know if I can do this."
She does not know why she is telling him this. She does not know why the words keep coming, spilling out of her like water from a broken dam.
"I need this job," she says. "Not because I am desperate, though I am. Not because I have no choices, though I do not. I need it because my son asked me last night if we are a real family, and I said yes, but I need to make it true. I need to build something real for them. Something solid. And I will work harder than anyone you have ever hired. I will be the best assistant you have ever had. Just... please. Give me a chance."
The silence stretches. Allie does not look up. She cannot bear to see the pity or the dismissal or whatever else is on his face.
"Ms. Bennett," Dom says finally. "When can you start?"
Allie's head snaps up. "What?"
"The position is yours. If you want it." Dom's expression is carefully blank, but his hands are gripping the desk so tight his knuckles are white. "The salary is negotiable. We will discuss benefits, hours, whatever you need. But I want you to start tomorrow. Is that acceptable?"
"I... yes. Yes, of course. But why? You do not even know if I am qualified. You did not ask about my skills, my references, my"
"I know enough." Dom stands up. He extends his hand across the desk. "Welcome to Volkov Industries, Ms. Bennett."
Allie shakes his hand. His grip is warm and firm and sends electricity up her arm. She pulls back quickly, too quickly, and his eyes narrow.
"Tomorrow," he says again. "Eight AM. Do not be late."
"I will not."
She gathers her things, her resume, her purse, her shattered composure. She is almost to the door when he speaks again.
"Ms. Bennett?"
She turns. He is standing by the window again, backlit by the sun, a silhouette of a man.
"The vanilla," he says softly. "It suits you."
Allie runs.
She does not stop running until she is on the subway, until she is surrounded by strangers who do not know her name, until she can breathe again. She pulls out her phone and texts Mrs. Chen: I got it. I got the job.
Then she puts her head in her hands and she cries.
Not from relief. Not entirely.
From the way he looked at her. From the way he said her name. From the terrible, impossible suspicion that he knows exactly who she is, and he is waiting for her to remember.
But that is crazy. That is impossible. Five years ago, she was nobody. He was... she does not know what he was. Rich, obviously. Powerful, clearly. But he was just a man in a club, just a stranger with sad eyes, just a mistake she made and ran from.
He cannot be her new boss.
He cannot be the reason she cannot breathe.
He cannot be.
But when she closes her eyes, she sees him. She sees the way his grey eyes softened when she talked about the twins. She sees the tension in his shoulders, the hunger in his face, the desperate way he watched her like she was water and he was dying of thirst.
And she remembers, suddenly and with perfect clarity, the way he touched her that night. Not like she was disposable. Not like she was temporary. Like she was precious. Like she was his.
"Stop it," she whispers to herself. "Stop it, Allie. You are being ridiculous."
But all the way home, she cannot shake the feeling that she has just made a terrible mistake. Or that she has just found something she did not know she was looking for.
She does not know which.