I grip my bag tightly, watching my reflection flicker in the elevator mirror. My black, tailored suit fits perfectly, paired with a crisp whiteshirt beneath. It’s sharp, clean—professional, exactly how I need to look today. My blonde hair is pulled back in an elegant twist, and my red cat eyeglasses highlight the green in my eyes. The red lipstick? Just bold enough to catch attention, but subtle enough to avoid raising eyebrows. My freckles are gone under a veil of makeup, and my eyelashes extend to infinity. I look good—no;I look ready. The nerves gnawing at my insides don’t change that. When the elevator dings, the doors slide open, revealing a woman standing on the other side, all confidence and bright smiles.
“Lauren Green?” she asks, her hand already extended.
“Yes. Stella?” I recognize her name from the HR briefing.
“The one and only. Welcome.” She beams, giving my hand a firm shake, and with a sweep of her arm, gestures for me to follow her. “This way.”
We walk through the polished heart of Manhattan’s most elite real estate agency, and I can feel the energy buzzing in the air. The office is a symphony of power and elegance—black-and-white photos of breathtaking skyscrapers line the walls like art gallery pieces. The open office spaces look like transparent fish tanks, filled with impeccably dressed agents who glide past us. Every one of them looks like they just walked off a runway. I mentally pat myself on the back for the wardrobe choice. I fit right in.
Stella leads me to a smaller office and opens the door to a round table. I carefully set my bag on the floor—against my mother’s persistent warnings about bad luck—and clasp my hands together on the table, ready for whatever comes next.
Showtime.
Stella takes the seat across from me, her demeanor friendly, the kind that puts people at ease. She’s in her thirties, like me, with curly brown hair framing her warm face, and from the prominent swell of her stomach, it’s clear she’s VERY pregnant.
“Well, Lauren, as you’ve probably noticed,” she says with a chuckle, resting a hand on her belly, “I’m about to go on maternity leave, and I’m in charge of finding my replacement as soon as possible.” She glances around the office, then lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Just between us, I interviewed the other candidate earlier today, and … well, let’s just say it’s not going to work out. My bets are on you.”
A ripple of excitement runs through me. “And you have no idea how much I appreciate that. Working here has been a dream of mine for years.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” She smiles, flipping through the folder in front of her. “It says here you can start immediately?”
“Yes, I’m completely available.”
“Perfect. If everything goes well today, in two days, you’ll have your final interview with the CEO. As you probably know, he has the final say.”
“I understand.” My voice is steady, but inside, the wordsfinal saythud like a warning.
“Don’t worry too much,” Stella adds, lowering her voice to a playful whisper. “He does what I tell him to do.”
I laugh softly, grateful for the lightness she’s adding to this high-stakes moment.
She continues, “Your main responsibilities will be stepping in for him when he’s unavailable for property showings and working closely with him when we have important clients. From what I see here, you’re more than qualified for that.” She pauses, her lips twitching into a small smile. “Honestly, he needs someone to keep him in line. He’s a bit … disorganized.”
The worddisorganizedhangs in the air, and my pulse quickens.Disorganized. My mind races, already picturing lists, schedules, and color-coded folders. My fingers twitch with the urge to put things in order. “Oh…” I murmur, trying not to sound too eager, but the idea of helping someone like that almost makes my mouth water.
“As I said,” she continues, “don’t worry. We’ll work together for a few weeks before I go on leave, and I’ll make sure you’re ready to take the reins. You’ll be sailing this ship smoothly in no time.”
“Thank you, Stella,” I say, gratitude spilling into my voice as we stand and shake hands once more. Her smile is warm and reassuring as she leads me back to the entrance.
As I step out into the lobby, the polished marble beneath my feet, my nerves feel lighter. One more interview and I could be stepping into the job of a lifetime.
I look at the reflection in the elevator,again. I’m dressed in a sleek black tube skirt paired with an emerald-green shirt—Emma’s suggestion. She insisted the color makes my eyes pop, though today’s not about appearances. It’s about showing the CEO what I can bring to his chaotic world.
The doors slide open, and there’s Stella again, though something’s different. Her smile is tight, almost nervous, and it throws me off balance. I rely on systems, on things being predictable, and seeing her frazzled makes my stomach churn. In the two days since I last saw her, her stomach seems to have doubled in size, making her movements slower, more careful.
“Welcome back,” she says, her voice warmer than her expression as she gestures for me to follow. This time, an iPad is clutched in her hand, her finger sliding rapidly across the screen. “He’ll be ready in a few minutes. You can wait here.”
She points to a white leather chair in front of the only office with tempered glass. It’s opaque, offering no glimpse of what’s behind it, just faint shapes that might be furniture, or shadows moving. I sit, giving Stella a tense smile. She mirrors it, then turns on her heels without another word, disappearing down the hallway.
Something feels off.
The minutes stretch painfully. I glance at my watch—10:15. The interview was scheduled for ten sharp. They were adamant about punctuality. Yet here I am, waiting. My foot starts twitching, the heels digging into my feet. The once-comfortable leather chair now feels like a medieval torture device. I get up, pacing the width of the lobby, trying to shake the stiffness from my limbs.
Suddenly, Stella reappears, her nervous smile plastered back in place. “He’s ready. You can come in now.”
“Oh…” I exhale, trying to calm my nerves and make my way to the door. She gestures for me to enter, but I notice the hesitation in her eyes.
The tempered glass door is heavier than I expected, like it’s made of iron. I push it open, stepping into the office. My breath catches. The view—wow. It’s a postcard of Manhattan’s skyline, stretching endlessly beyond the glass walls. To the left, there’s an oak desk that looks older than the city itself, commanding the room. Behind a massive monitor, I can see the top of a man’s head. I clear my throat to announce myself, but my voice dies in my throat. I force out a shaky, “Good morning…”
