Hired To Heal Him

Chapter 4: The Interview

POV: Cara Mills

The hallway was long and very quiet.

I walked slowly, my heels sinking into thick carpet that swallowed every sound. The walls were a deep charcoal grey. The lighting was low and deliberate. Everything about this floor said the same thing — that the person at the end of it did not want to be approached without a reason.

I had a reason.

I stopped in front of the door.

D. COLE.

The nameplate was simple. Black letters on brushed steel. No title underneath. No need for one, apparently. Just the name, like it was enough on its own.

I stood there for a moment.

And for the first time since I had submitted that application, the full reality of what I was doing landed on me. Not as a plan or a decision or a calculated risk. As a physical thing, right there in my chest.

I was about to walk into a room with Damien Cole.

The man from the video. The man from the news. The man four million people had watched get exposed as cold and ruthless and impossible to work for.

I took one breath.

Knocked twice.

"Come in."

His voice was lower than I expected. Flat and even, the kind of voice that had never needed to raise itself to be heard.

I opened the door and walked in.

The office was large.

Floor to ceiling windows on the far wall, looking out over the city. Manhattan spread below like something that belonged to him. Glass desk, dark wood shelving, everything in its exact place. No clutter. No softness. Nothing that didn't serve a purpose.

He was standing at the window with his back to me when I entered.

He didn't turn around immediately.

I closed the door behind me and stood straight. I had decided on the elevator that I was not going to be the kind of person who filled silence with nervous talking. If he wanted to make me wait, I would wait. Quietly. Without fidgeting.

So I waited.

After a long moment, he turned.

And I understood immediately why his photo had never quite captured him.

Damien Cole in person was something photographs were not equipped for. Tall. Dark suit, no tie, top button open. Strong jaw, dark eyes that moved to me and stayed there without any warmth or welcome. He looked at me the way people looked at problems they were deciding whether to solve.

His expression didn't change.

"Sit down," he said.

I sat.

He came to his desk, pulled out the chair across from me — not beside me, across, deliberate — and sat down. He had a single sheet of paper on the desk. My CV. He glanced at it once, then looked back at me.

"You know about the video," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," I said.

"And you applied anyway."

"Yes."

He studied me for a moment. "Why."

Not why did you apply. Just why. Like the full question wasn't worth finishing.

I had prepared an answer for this. Something professional and measured about my qualifications and my ability to work under pressure. I had rehearsed it on the subway. It had sounded good in my head.

But sitting across from him, under that flat, direct stare, the rehearsed answer felt wrong. Too polished. Too careful.

So I said the true thing instead.

"I need the job."

Something shifted in his expression. Not warmth exactly. More like the faintest trace of attention. Like I had said something unexpected and he was deciding what to do with it.

"That's it?" he said.

"That's it," I said. "I'm qualified. I work hard. And I need this job more than anyone else who could walk through that door."

Silence.

He looked at me for a long moment. I didn't look away. I had learned a long time ago that looking away first was the same as saying you weren't sure of yourself. And whatever else I was feeling right now, I was sure.

"You reviewed my qualifications," I said. "You can see I have the experience. I'm not here to tell you I'm not scared of you. I'm here to tell you that it doesn't matter if I am."

Another silence.

Longer this time.

Then he said: "Previous experience managing complex schedules?"

"Three years. My last role supported a team of twelve."

"Confidentiality."

"Non-negotiable. Nothing leaves this office."

"I don't explain myself twice."

"I don't need you to."

He looked at me steadily. I looked back.

The city sat quietly behind him through the floor to ceiling glass, twenty stories below, unhurried and indifferent.

Then Damien Cole picked up my CV, looked at it one last time, and set it face down on the desk.

"You start Monday," he said.

That was it. No congratulations. No smile. No handshake.

He was already looking at something on his computer screen, like I had already ceased to be interesting.

I stood, picked up my bag, and said: "Thank you."

He said nothing.

I walked to the door, turned the handle, and stepped out into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind me.

I stood there for a second, completely still, the thick carpet swallowing all the sound.

I had the job.

I had actually gotten the job.

I started walking toward the elevator, slowly at first, then faster. I pulled out my phone and called my mother's hospital room. It rang twice.

"Cara?" Her voice was tired but warm. Always warm.

"Mom," I said. "I got it."

She made a sound I hadn't heard from her in weeks.

Relief.

I stepped into the elevator and let the doors close around me.

I told myself the hard part was over.

I had no idea it was just beginning.