“You’ll need to watch the last twenty interviews I gave—most of which turned into written ones—and take notes. Then watch interviews from businessmen who people claim are more likable than me, and bring your notes up with my nine o’clock breakfast. I’d like eggs from Emilio’s this time—with my usual latte.”
He walked away without another word.
The screen faded into view, showing a beautiful hotel suite with floor-to-ceiling windows. The camera panned to Harrison standing on a platform while a team of tailors adjusted his suit.
“Mr. Cross,” a soft voice said offscreen, “after acquiring so much wealth and success, are you fulfilled in life?”
“Fulfilled?” He arched a brow.
“Yes, fulfilled. As in happy or content.”
“I know what that word means,” he said. “I just don’t know why you’re asking me something emotional.”
“It’s a pretty soft question, sir.”
“It’s also a pointless question.” He sat up a bit straighter. “I run multiple businesses, and there’s no such thing as ever being ‘fulfilled.’”
“So, you’re not happy?”
He stared at her—not blinking, not moving.
If I didn’t see the vein swelling in his neck, I would’ve assumed he’d turned into stone.
“I’ll, uh—I’ll ask another question.”
“Don’t bother.” He shifted in his seat and stood up. “This interview is over.”
The screen went black, and another image of him appeared.
This time he was in front of a microphone.
“Before we get started, don’t ask me any hypotheticals,” he said, “or how I feel about anything.”
“Sir, this is literallyThe Businessmen Have Feelings, Toopodcast.”
“I see.” He slid back in his chair. “This interview is over.”
It took six more clips to confirm that this man and in-person interviews were a disaster. Fifteen more to bet on whether he’d ever actually finished one, and twenty to realize he hadn’t.
By the time my alarm sounded for breakfast, I only had one note for him.
Pretend to be someone else.
I tucked it under his eggs and set it on his desk as he chatted on the phone.
Backing away before he could ask me to do anything else, I made it to his doorway before he said my name.
“Where are you going?” he asked, hanging up the phone.
“To take some more notes on your interviews,” I said. “I’ll rewatch a few.”
“Don’t bother.” He held up my note. “You can explain whatever this means to me.”
I looked down the hallway—at my potential freedom, then back at him.
“Come back in, Miss Stone,” he said. “Shut the door behind you.”
Resigning to my fate, I stepped in and obliged. Then I took a seat at his desk.
