TRAPPED WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

THE JOB INTERVIEW

Anna's POV

The cheap plastic alarm clock read 6:47 AM, which meant I was already thirteen minutes behind schedule.

"No, no, no" I scrambled out of bed, nearly tangling myself in the thin bedsheet that had seen better decades. My foot caught, I stumbled, and only the chipped wooden dresser saved me from face-planting onto the floor. "Of all mornings."

The interview was at nine. Nine! That gave me exactly two hours and thirteen minutes to transform myself from "sleep-deprived girl sharing a room with her younger sister" into "polished professional who absolutely deserves a job at Steele Emporium."

The bathroom mirror greeted me with honesty I didn't appreciate. Dark circles. Hair that looked like it had fought with the pillow and lost. And the slight sheen of panic that seemed to permanently live on my skin these days.

"You can do this, Anna," I whispered to my reflection. "You have to do this."

Because the alternative wasn't an option. Not with Mom working double shifts at the diner and still coming up short on rent. Not with Lily needing new shoes for school and pretending her old ones didn't have holes. Not with the stack of bills on the kitchen counter that seemed to grow taller every time I looked at it.

I showered in record time, I showered in three minutes, forty-two seconds using the good shampoo I'd been saving for a special occasion. If this wasn't a special occasion, nothing was. The hot water sputtered and coughed like it always did, giving me exactly ninety seconds of warmth before turning icy. I'd learned to work with it.

Back in my room, I laid out my armor: a navy blue blazer I'd found at a thrift store last year, a cream blouse that only had one small stain near the collar (strategically hidden by the blazer), and a black pencil skirt that was maybe an inch shorter than professionally ideal but made my legs look good. The confidence couldn't hurt.

I was fastening my one pair of decent earrings which were pearl studs, fake but convincing when my door burst open.

"Annie! You're still here!" Lily launched herself at me, all bony elbows and excitement, wrapping her thin arms around my waist. At seven years old, she hadn't quite grasped the concept of personal space, and honestly, I never wanted her to.

"I'm here, munchkin." I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her coconut shampoo. "But I have to leave soon."

"Mom said you're going to get a fancy job at a fancy place with fancy people." Lily pulled back, her brown eyes, the same as mine studying my face with an intensity that always surprised me. "Will you be fancy too?"

I laughed, crouching down to her level. "I'll try my best. But I'll always be your same old Annie, okay? No amount of fancy can change that."

She nodded solemnly, then reached up to pat my cheek. "You look pretty. The fancy people will like you."

"I hope so, sweet girl."

The smell of coffee, weak coffee, the kind where you reused the grounds because you couldn't afford more drifted in from the kitchen. I took Lily's hand and walked out to find Mom at the small table, a mug in front of her and worry lines etched deep into her forehead.

She looked up when I entered, and for a moment, her face softened into something resembling pride. "Oh, Anna. You look lovely."

"Thanks, Mom." I poured myself half a cup of the sad coffee, adding extra sugar to make it drinkable. "Wish me luck."

"Luck has nothing to do with it." Mom reached out and squeezed my hand. Her fingers were rough from years of work, from scrubbing dishes and tables and floors so her children could have *slightly* less than she did. "You're smart and capable and any company would be lucky to have you. You remember that."

"Steele Emporium isn't just any company, Mom."

"I know, baby." She squeezed harder. "That's why you're going to walk in there and show them exactly who you are."

My little brother Tommy shuffled in then, still in his pajamas, his hair a disaster of cowlicks. "Anna's going to the billionaire building?"

"Tommy, language," Mom said automatically.

"What? That's what they call it. The billionaire building. My friend Marcus said his cousin tried to get a job there and the lobby alone is bigger than our whole apartment building."

"That's not" I started, then stopped because it probably was true. Everything I'd read about Steele Emporium suggested it existed in a different universe from the one my family occupied. Glass and steel and impossible architecture, perched at the center of the city like a monument to wealth I couldn't comprehend.

I finished my coffee in two gulps, ignoring how it burned my tongue. "I should go. The train takes forty minutes, and I want to be early."

The goodbye ritual was the same as always: Mom's tight hug, her whispered "I'm proud of you" against my hair. Tommy's awkward pat on the shoulder that he thought made him look grown-up. And Lily, my Lily, who clung to my neck and made me promise to come home and tell her everything.

"I will, munchkin. Every single detail."

One last look in the hallway mirror. I smoothed my blazer, checked that my blouse was tucked properly, pinched my cheeks for color like the magazines suggested. The woman looking back at me could have been someone else, someone who belonged in glass buildings with important jobs. Someone whose family didn't depend on her success.

'You deserve to be there', I told myself. *You worked hard. You graduated near the top of your class. You're qualified.*

I repeated it like a mantra on the train, during the forty minutes of stops and starts and standing room only. I was still repeating it when I emerged from the subway station and looked up.

And up.

And up.

The Steele Emporium building didn't just scrape the sky, it owned it. A tower of reflective glass and steel that caught the morning light and threw it back at the world like a challenge. It rose above everything around it, arrogant in its height, beautiful in its impossibility. I'd seen pictures, of course. Everyone had seen pictures. But pictures couldn't capture how it made you feel small.

Insignificant.

Like an ant staring up at a god.

I clutched my portfolio tighter and walked forward.

The lobby was worse.

Marble floors that gleamed like still water. A ceiling that soared so high I got vertigo looking up at it. Light fixtures that probably cost more than my mother's annual salary, dangling like frozen waterfalls. And people, very beautiful people, expensive people, people who moved through this space like they owned it, because some of them probably did.

I found the reception desk, a curved expanse of white stone that seemed to float, and gave my name to a woman so polished she looked like a doll.

"Annabel Brown. I'm here for the executive assistant interview."

She tapped on her tablet, her manicured nails making soft clicking sounds. "Ninth floor. Check in with HR. They'll direct you to the waiting area."

"Thank you."

The elevator was another experience entirely, all mirrors and brass and soft music that probably cost more per minute than I made in a week. I watched myself in the reflection and tried not to notice how my thrift store blazer suddenly looked exactly like what it was: thrift store.

The doors opened onto the ninth floor.

And my confidence cracked.

The waiting area was full of women. Dozens of them, perched on leather chairs that probably cost more than my bed, arranged around glass tables with magazines I'd never heard of. And they were all, all perfect.

Perfect hair, styled within an inch of its life. Perfect makeup, subtle but present. Perfect clothes, designer labels I recognized even if I couldn't afford them. Perfect posture. Perfect smiles. Perfect nails. Perfect everything.

They looked like they'd been grown in some corporate laboratory, bred specifically for this moment.

I looked like I'd wandered in off the street.

Which, technically, I had.

A woman at the front, blonde, severe, wearing a suit that probably cost my rent for six months—looked up from her clipboard. "Annabel Brown?"

"That's me."

She made a note, her expression unreadable. "Take a seat. We'll be starting the preliminary interviews shortly. You'll have exactly seven minutes each."

Seven minutes. My entire future, condensed into seven minutes.

I found an empty chair near the window, trying not to make eye contact with any of the other candidates. They all seemed to know each other or at least, they all seemed to belong to the same world. They chatted easily about internships and connections, about people they knew and places they'd been.

I stared out the window at the city below and tried to breathe.

*You deserve to be here.*

The words felt hollow now. Flimsy. Like my blazer, like my resume, like everything I'd brought with me.

These women had probably never reused coffee grounds. They'd never worn shoes with holes. They'd never lain awake at night doing the mental math of bills versus groceries and knowing the numbers wouldn't add up.

What was I doing here?

The blonde woman called another name. A brunette in a red dress stood gracefully, smoothed her skirt, and walked into the conference room like she owned it. She emerged exactly seven minutes later with a confident smile.

I was next.

"Annabel Brown."

My heart slammed against my ribs. I stood on legs that felt suddenly unsteady, smoothed my thrift store blazer, and walked toward the door.

*You deserve to be here.*

The lie felt heavier with every step.

But I kept walking anyway. Because what choice did I have?