MALIA
I step into the massive skyscraper in the heart of the city, my heart racing and my hands trembling.
Finally, after so much time, countless résumés sent out and failed interviews, I've been called for a real one. For the first time, I have a feeling I won't walk out of here empty-handed. I can't afford to lose this opportunity. Not if I want my baby back with me.
— Good morning. I'm here for an interview with Mr...I glance down at the paper in my hands and read the name.— ...Eduardo Lecler.
The receptionist looks at me, confused, and starts typing on her computer. While she searches, I take in the lobby around me. It's breathtaking.
— Malia Santos?I nod.— It seems Mr. Lecler will be interviewing you personally. Take this badge and head to the penthouse.She hands it to me and points toward the elevator.
I do as she says and walk over. When the doors open and I step inside, I notice the panel filled with numbers—and a large "P" at the top. Penthouse. I press it, and a small screen prompts me to scan my badge.
For a second, I worry I pressed the wrong button, but I scan it anyway. The panel goes dark, and the elevator begins to move. I feel it ascending. It takes nearly a full minute before it finally stops and the doors slide open.
I step out, my eyes widening slightly. Marble floors stretch across the entire space, leading to floor-to-ceiling glass windows that span the length of the room. The place screams money.
— Excuse me, Ms. Malia?A woman approaches me.
— Yes.
— Follow me. Mr. Lecler is eagerly awaiting you.
That surprises me.
I had the highest marks in college and in every course I took. Someone with a résumé like mine is rarely unemployed these days. Hiring me should be an obvious advantage to any company—if it weren't for one simple problem.
— Here. He's waiting for you.She opens a door and gestures for me to enter.
Like the lobby, the office is covered in white marble. But the dark wood furniture gives it a strong, masculine contrast, and the view of the city below feels almost godlike.
And there he is.
Sitting behind his desk as if he's been expecting me, a man stands and walks toward us.
— Good morning. Malia, right?He extends his hand.
I tilt my head back to look up at him. Jet-black hair. Piercing green eyes. He doesn't look a day over forty. There's a polite smile on his face, but something about him feels… sharp.
— Yes.I shake his hand.
— Great. Have a seat. Let's talk.He gestures toward a large oak table, and I sit where indicated.
— Did you bring all the documents we requested?he asks, sitting across from me.
— Right here.I hand him the folder.
He starts with my résumé, and it doesn't take long before his eyes lift to meet mine.
— How old are you again, Malia?
— I'm twenty-eight.
— I thought it might have been a typo… but here it is.He taps the paper lightly.— What on this résumé is fake?
The question catches me off guard.
— I'm sorry?
— You studied Business Administration, Human Resources, and Technology?His eyebrows arch.— The first two before you were twenty-six?
— That's correct. I started college at seventeen. I finished my first degree at twenty-one, the second at twenty-three, and went straight into Technology after that. I was young and wanted to strengthen my résumé, along with the technical courses I took.I gesture toward the folder.— I brought everything to prove it.
He opens it and checks each document carefully.
— You're overqualified. Why aren't you employed?
I look at him for a moment, already bracing myself. This is it. The moment everything falls apart.
— I think it's because I don't have a clean record.
This is the part where everyone decides I'm not the kind of person they're looking for—even when I am.
— Malia.His voice makes me meet his eyes.— Since you were honest, I'll be the same.
I wait for the rejection.
— Before you even walked in, I already knew everything about you. Your qualifications… and the fact that you've been to prison.
My stomach tightens, but I stay silent.
— And you still called me for an interview?
— I wanted to see what kind of person you were.He stands and leans casually against the desk in front of me.— When I questioned your qualifications, you stayed polite. When I asked why you weren't working, even knowing how hard that must be to admit… you told the truth.
— I… don't understand.
He smiles.
— What I'm saying is that you're perfect for the position I'm offering.
My heart jumps.
Is he serious? Am I finally getting a job? Am I going to get my daughter back?
— Are you serious?
— I am, Ms. Malia.His smile widens slightly.— Friday night. The woman outside will give you the address. Be there. Consider it a trial.
— Oh my God…I let out a breath, disbelief washing over me.— Thank you. Thank you so much.
I stand, shaking his hand again.
— Don't thank me yet.His tone shifts, more serious now.— You may go. We'll discuss the details on Friday night.
I nod and turn toward the door, but stop abruptly.
— I'm sorry… I don't actually know what the job is.I hesitate.— Not that I'm complaining. I'll take anything.
He smiles again and walks back toward his chair.
— Your role will be very important.A pause.— I want you to be my wife.
My breath catches.
— The perfect wife to match that perfect résumé.