THE INTERVIEW
IVY
When Darcy invites me, and only me, to a “little chat” in her office, I know the jig is up. There’s no other explanation.
As soon as I open the door to Darcy’s office, I’m in love. Based on her whole “eclectic houndstooth” vibe, I knew I wasn’t about to walk into a showroom ofForbes’s Top Ten Beige variants. But wow, you could have given me twenty guesses and I never would have picked the mustard wallpaper meets earthy opulence that’s here.
“Holy shit, can I live here?” I blurt out as she waves me in, my brain three seconds behind me as I finally see she’s on a call. “Sorry,” I mouth with a wince.
“Yes,” she smiles, gesturing to the chairs in front of her desk. They’re velvety brown and oversized and may actually swallow me whole. “Fantastic news. I’ll mark it on the calendar and send through an invite shortly.”
When she hangs up, her smile has shifted into something softer, broader, more real. “Come in, take a seat.”
The suede chair is even softer than I imagined, welcoming me like a family member as I sit down. “Bossiness runs in the family, I see.”
Darcy casts me a shrewd look. “It does. You’ll want to get used to that.”
I cross my legs, glad I chose today to wear the boots Astrid bought me. They’ll be confident enough for the both of us. “I can handle myself.”
And like saying the magic word, she relaxes, looking as gleeful as when she snuck onto the plane to surprise us. “I had that impression, yes.”
Though it’s lighter than her brother’s, her accent is still there, rounding out her vowels in a striking way. I wonder if it’s unshakable or if she’s holding on to it for sentimentality.
“You’re good for my brother,” she says, apropos of nothing. Sentimentality it is, then.
“I’m glad,” I say, my breath caught in my chest. “He deserves someone who’s good to him.”
“I agree.” She leans forward, primly tucking her hair behind one ear. “Ivy, how much do you know about what we do here?”
The title block on Darcy’s desk says Head of Marketing and Communications. After the masquerade, I was more curious than ever about Lincoln’s family, but knowing that they run a successful paintbrush manufacturing company— with deep ties to the community and a strong enough partnership with multiple art colleges that they’ve even personally funded fully paid scholarships— doesn’t tell me anything about what Darcy’s job is.
“A little,” I bluff.
She clasps her hands together on the desk, her fingers stacked with gold rings, and draws out the silence that follows, trapping me under her gaze. It’s far too reminiscent of her brothers’. Did they all stand in front of the mirror and practice? It’s uncanny. And unnerving.
My high school drama exam consisted solely of a five-minute monologue that had to be performed in front of the class. We weren’t allowed costumes or props, only use of the stage. But improvising in front of two dozen sets of eyes was less intimidating than this.
Eventually, Darcy tilts her head. “Do you have any sales experience?”
Wait. Huh? I’m so lost.
My face must be doing the talking for me, because she adds, “I can see you have a strong background in customer engagement, which is useful.” She flips over the printout in her hands, and I lean closer.
“Is that my résumé?”
She nods, still reading. “Would you say you pick up new systems quickly?” Dropping the paper to face me head-on, she clasps her hands over her desk again.
“Sorry, is this an interview?”
Darcy looks up, bright blue hitting me like a spotlight. “Yes.”
What?
“But… why?”
To my surprise, she laughs, as though I’ve told a great joke. “Did you know that the night of the masquerade, the auction made more than it has in three years?”
I have no idea where this is going or why it involves me, but I can’t pull that thread without unraveling the whole ball of wax, so I shake my head and hope it’ll make sense soon.
