The Two Week Notice

"Idiots. Complete f*****g idiots." The tall, dark-haired man spits the words out like venom, his voice cold and dripping with frustration. He stands rigidly in front of me, his broad back turned, shoulders tense, and hands clenched at his sides. His presence looms large in the dimly lit room, casting a long shadow across the floor. I bite my lip, trying to focus on the stack of paperwork trembling in my hands. The pages crinkle under my nervous fingers, the sound barely audible over my pounding heart. Anxiety wraps around me like a tight coil, constricting my chest with every breath. I glance at the back of his head, dreading the moment he turns around and directs his anger at me. "Excuse me... excuse me, sir," I mumble, my voice barely audible the first time, almost swallowed by the air between us. It comes out as a faint whisper, so soft that it's clear he didn't hear me. Swallowing hard, I force myself to say it again, louder this time, though still tinged with hesitation. The second attempt trembles slightly as it leaves my lips, my heart racing as I try to get his attention. Each word feels like it's getting caught in my throat, and I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my office?" The words come out sharp and demanding, cutting through the silence like a blade. His eyes narrow as he glares at me, suspicion and irritation clear in his voice. The room feels smaller under the weight of his gaze, every second stretched as I scramble for a response. "I... I, uh..." My voice falters as I stammer, barely able to form the words. "I'm Bobby, and I'm here for the job interview...the personal assistant role." I manage to mumble the sentence, my voice shaky and uncertain. Inside, I'm mentally scolding myself for sounding so unprepared, my thoughts racing with self-criticism. Meanwhile, his fierce gaze stays locked on me, hard and unforgiving, like he's judging every hesitation, every stumble. The silence that follows is suffocating, stretching far longer than it should, leaving a pit of dread growing in my stomach. The room feels still, as if even the air is holding its breath, waiting for something to break the tension. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, I speak up again, my words barely pushing past the anxiety gripping my chest. "I... I can explain, if you'd like..." "So, uh, should I show you my references?" I ask, my voice coming out more hesitant than I'd intended. His eyes remain fixed on me, unwavering, his expression unreadable. The silence between us stretches uncomfortably, and I can't help but think, Didn't anyone teach the rich boy any manners? It's rude to stare like that, especially when you're making someone squirm. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to steady my nerves, but his gaze doesn't falter. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks. "That won't be necessary," he says, his deep voice rolling out with a slow, deliberate precision. Each syllable carries an intimidating weight, like he's sizing me up with every word, deciding whether I'm worth his time. His tone is cold, dismissive, and it sends a chill through me."Tell me something worth knowing about you. What are your truest intentions in life? What are your desires?" He says, raising an eyebrow as my cheeks heat deeply. God, the pressure is unbearable. I feel like I'm on the verge of cracking, like a dam about to burst under the weight of everything pressing down on me. Every nerve in my body is tense, coiled so tightly I can hardly breathe. It's as if the walls are closing in, and I'm one wrong move away from completely falling apart. "My truest intention is love," I say, trying to sound confident. But as soon as the words leave my mouth, he lets out a loud, mocking chuckle. My irritation flares instantly, and I bare my teeth just slightly, feeling the sharp edge of my patience wearing thin. "Of course it is," he replies, a smirk creeping across his face as if he's enjoying some private joke at my expense. His arrogance radiates off him, and I narrow my eyes, watching him gloat. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean, Mr St. James?" I ask, the temptation to cross my arms almost overwhelming. My voice carries a sharper edge now, daring him to explain himself. "You clearly haven't had your heart broken yet, have you?" He mutters as I glare at him. "Is this part of the interview?" I ask, my voice steadier now, a bit more confident. He leans back slightly, eyes fixed on me with a scrutinising gaze. "You studied English literature. Why aren't you a writer?" His question hangs in the air as I finally look up and meet his eyes, bracing myself for whatever judgment might come next. "I'm trying," I reply, forcing a smile. "But it takes time. Besides, I'm not good enough yet. I have to keep working at it." I see him nod, but the action feels patronising, almost like he's already written me off as someone who isn't going to make it. I despise him already. The envy creeps up inside me, swirling in my gut. This is someone who was handed everything on a silver platter thanks to family wealth, and here I am, clawing for every opportunity I can get. The urge to snap at him, to say something like, Not everyone gets things handed to them, bubbles to the surface. But I push it down. It wouldn't be professional. Not now. Not in front of someone who could hold my future in his hands. "You'd have to be available at any time, any moment of the day. This job can be strenuous," he says, his voice deep and authoritative, as if the mere concept of hard work is somehow foreign to me. "I understand," I say, nodding. I have no choice but to understand. I need this. He smirks, that smug expression never leaving his face. "What do you say, Bunny? You up for the challenge?" I freeze, glaring at him. Bunny? Did he seriously just call me that? My irritation spikes again. This entitled jackass is already getting on my last nerve, and we've barely started. "As soon as you've been working here for over a month, you'll be able to claim full health benefits, dental insurance, and you'll get a company car," he adds nonchalantly, like it's no big deal. But my eyes shoot up at the mention of a company car. "Wow, I... umm... I mean, thank you," I stammer, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. I wasn't expecting that. He raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. "I haven't hired you yet. Don't get cocky." His tone drips with superiority, as if he enjoys watching me squirm. I bite back the urge to snap again and mutter through gritted teeth, "Yes, you're right. Sorry." He dismisses me with a wave. "You can leave now. You'll get a call if you get the job." Embarrassment rushes through me, and I feel my face flush. "I, umm... my phone broke," I say, barely above a whisper. I pray he doesn't push further. The truth is ugly. The real reason I don't have a phone is that I had to sell it to make rent this month. Gran's medical bills are piling up, and I can't afford luxuries like phones or computers. I scrape by, using the library's computers to check emails and job postings—mostly rejections telling me I'm too young or lack the experience they want. He scowls, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Well, when will you be getting a new one?" he snaps, his impatience palpable. "I... I don't know," I mumble, feeling smaller by the second. Could this interview get any worse? "Is there anything you DO know?" he mocks, mimicking my nervous stutter. His words sting, and I feel the heat of frustration rise up again. But I swallowed it down, forcing myself to breathe. Breathe, Bobby. Just breathe. "Best wishes, Mr St. James," I say, forcing a tight smile as I turn on my heel and head for the door. In an ideal world, I'd get the job on the spot. I'd walk out of here with the confidence of knowing I'd be working for one of the richest men in Holland. But this isn't an ideal world. This is my life, and nothing ever comes easy.