The reception area felt quieter than it should have.
Or maybe it was just Zara.
She sat with her back straight, hands resting neatly in her lap, her fingers loosely intertwined, but the calm was a performance. Beneath it, her thoughts moved too fast, slipping over each other, refusing to settle into anything steady.
You've done harder things.
Have I?
She exhaled slowly, her gaze fixed ahead, but she wasn't seeing anything. Her mind kept circling back to one thing.
The café.
The man.
The way he had looked at her like she had interrupted something he hadn't even realized he was bored of.
It didn't matter.
"Miss Rahman?"
Zara blinked, pulled back into the present.
A woman stood before her, professional, composed. "They're ready for you."
Zara nodded, rising immediately. "Thank you."
Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor as she followed the woman down the corridor. Everything here felt deliberate. Controlled. Like nothing was left to chance.
Unlike her thoughts.
"You can go in."
Zara nodded again.
Then she was alone.
For a moment, she stood in front of the door, her reflection faintly visible in the glass beside it. The dress sat perfectly on her, structured, composed, exactly as Chloe had intended.
You look like you belong.
The problem was—
She didn't feel like it.
Zara inhaled, then pushed the door open.
"Good morning.... "
The words collapsed the second she saw him.
Seated at the head of the table.
Still.
Composed.
Exactly the same.
Her chest tightened, the air catching somewhere between her lungs and her throat as recognition hit all at once, sharp and disorienting.
No.
No, this is not happening.
But it was.
His gaze lifted to hers, steady, unreadable, as though this moment had always been inevitable.
"Miss Rahman," he said calmly. "Please, have a seat."
Nothing in his voice acknowledged what had happened earlier.
Nothing betrayed recognition.
And somehow that made it worse.
Zara moved.
Her body obeyed even when her mind hadn't caught up. She crossed the room, sat down, placed her file in front of her with care that felt deliberate, controlled.
Do not react.
Do not let this affect you.
The interview began.
"Tell us about yourself."
Simple.
Easy.
Zara opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Her mind stalled, completely, like something had reached in and cut the connection between thought and speech.
She blinked once, then again.
"I... "
The word failed halfway.
Her throat tightened.
Focus.
"Take your time," one of the panelists said kindly.
Zara nodded quickly, forcing herself to breathe. "I'm… a recent graduate," she began, her voice not as steady as she wanted. "I have strong organizational skills and... "
She stopped.
That sounded rehearsed.
Flat.
Wrong.
Her fingers tightened slightly against each other beneath the table.
Start again.
"I adapt quickly," she tried instead, her words coming a little faster now, like she was chasing them before they slipped away again. "And I work well under pressure."
A lie.
Not entirely.
But not convincingly.
Silence followed.
Not long.
But long enough.
Her gaze flickered up—
And met his.
Sebastian Hawthorne was watching her.
Not critically.
Not impatiently.
Just… watching.
And somehow that made everything worse.
"Can you give an example?" another panelist asked.
Zara's mind scrambled.
Example.
Think.
Her thoughts refused to settle, slipping past anything useful, leaving her grasping at something that wouldn't come.
"I..... yes," she said quickly, too quickly. "During my final year, I had to manage multiple deadlines and I... "
She lost it again.
The sentence broke.
Incomplete.
Her chest tightened further, frustration rising sharp and immediate.
Get it together.
"I handled it," she finished, weaker this time. "Successfully."
The word hung there.
Unconvincing.
Thin.
She could feel it.
They could hear it.
He definitely could.
"Your CV suggests strong academic performance," another voice added, trying to redirect. "What would you say is your biggest strength?"
Zara swallowed.
Something simple.
Something clear.
"My ability to remain composed," she said.
The irony hit her immediately.
Too late.
A pause followed.
Not subtle this time.
Not kind.
Zara felt the heat rise under her skin, her composure slipping in small, painful ways she couldn't fully control. Every answer felt slightly off, slightly delayed, slightly less than it should have been.
She wasn't failing loudly.
She was failing quietly.
And that was worse.
"Miss Rahman."
His voice.
Calm.
Measured.
Zara looked up.
His gaze held hers, steady, unreadable, giving nothing away.
"You don't seem composed," he said.
The words were not harsh.
But they landed like they were.
Zara felt it sharp, immediate, cutting through what little control she had left.
For a second, she said nothing.
"No," she admitted.
The honesty surprised even her.
The room stilled slightly.
Her fingers loosened, her shoulders settling just a fraction as she forced herself to continue.
"I'm not," she said, quieter now, but clearer. "Not right now."
Another pause.
"But that doesn't mean I'm incapable," she added, her voice steadying with effort. "It just means I didn't expect this."
She didn't look away.
Not this time.
Something shifted in his gaze.
Small.
Controlled.
But there.
The interview moved on, but the damage had already been done. Zara answered the rest of the questions, but the rhythm never returned. She could feel it in the way the room responded, in the subtle shift of attention, in the quiet understanding settling beneath the surface.
She had messed this up.
Not completely.
But enough.
"Thank you, Miss Rahman."
Zara nodded, rising to her feet. "Thank you for your time."
She didn't trust herself to look at him again.
She walked out.
The door closed behind her.
And the moment it did, she exhaled sharply, her composure slipping for just a second.
"God," she muttered under her breath. "What was that?"
---
Inside the room, silence lingered.
"That was… not strong," one of the panelists said carefully.
Another nodded. "She lost her footing early."
A pause.
"She stays."
All attention shifted.
Sebastian didn't look at them. His gaze remained on the closed door, his expression composed, controlled, giving nothing away.
"She was unsteady," he said. "Not incapable."
No one spoke.
"She recovered enough to be noted," he added.
That was generous.
They all knew it.
But none of them challenged it.
"And more importantly," he continued quietly, "she did not pretend."
That, more than anything, settled it.
He stood.
"Prepare the offer."
No hesitation.
No explanation.
Just decision.
Because despite the hesitation...
Despite the failure...
He had seen something in her that the rest of them had not.
And that was enough.