Chapter5
977 Words
**Celeste**
The California sun peeked through my beat-up blinds, splashing gold across my faded apartment walls. I woke up to the patter of little feet across the floor. My son Ethan giggled, a sound so pure it made me grin before I even opened my eyes.
“Mama,” his voice came, bright and totally unaware of the weight on my chest.
I turned on my side and watched my seven-years old climb onto my bed, his hair all messed up. His T-shirt was crooked, his shorts wrinkled from sleep, but his eyes…those deep hazel eyes, sparkled with pure joy.
“Morning, baby,” I whispered, running my fingers through his hair.
“Are we having pancakes today?” he asked, hopeful.
I laughed softly, the sound a little rough. “Maybe tomorrow. Today’s important for Mama. Remember the interview?”
He frowned. “Another one?”
I swallowed hard, forcing cheer into my voice. “Yes. But this one’s different. I feel it.”
What I didn’t say was that this was my last chance. Seven applications, seven polite rejections that had left me hollow. Bills were piling up, with final notices stuck in envelopes I couldn’t bring myself to open. And Ethan…my sweet, innocent boy, deserved more than the scraped-together life I had been giving him.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t cry in front of him anymore. Not today. So I smiled instead and kissed his forehead.
“Wish me luck?” I asked.
He hugged me tight. “Good luck, Mama. You can do anything.”
His faith in me was a knife and a balm at once.
Standing in front of the mirror, smoothing down my secondhand blouse and the skirt I’d managed to press the night before, my stomach was in knots. The clothes were clean, but plain. Not like what the women who always got the jobs wore.
I applied on some lipstick, not for beauty but for courage, and told Ethan to lock the door after me. As I walked out, the California air felt nice, cool and steady, against the nerves churning inside me.
The bus ride was a blur. My thoughts were racing…what if they say no again, what if they laugh, what if I never get a stable job? I pressed my palms together, breathing in, breathing out.
Then I saw it.
The skyscraper tower over the city, its glass walls reflecting the sun like a blade. I stopped looking up at the huge building. It made me feel tiny.
What am I even doing here?
I gripped my folder tighter and forced myself forward.
Inside, the lobby was sparkling. The marble floors reflected the light from the chandelier above, while polished men and women in expensive suits swept past me. I stood there for a second, trying not to stare, until a voice snapped me out of it.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you here for the interview?” a receptionist asked nicely.
“Yes,” I breathed out, clutching my folder. It was filled with forged resume, thinned-out credentials. If I showed them the full truth of my qualifications, I would look like I was overqualified. No one wanted a desperate mother who’d been surviving off side jobs and night shifts. They wanted someone easy to control. Someone beneath them.
I sat where she told me, surrounded by other people waiting, whose perfumes smelled expensive, whose handbags screamed designer labels. My stomach turned. I was the outsider again. Always an outsider.
Minutes bled into hours until finally, a woman with bright red lipstick and sharp eyes came. “Celeste Monroe?”
I rose, my knees shaking.
She looked me up and down with a look of disdain. “This way.”
We passed glass walls and shiny doors until we got to a broad hallway. She stopped, blocking my path. “Before you step inside, let me give you some advice,” she sneered. “This isn’t a charity house. The CEO doesn’t waste time on women trying to look poor and sad to trap some rich guy.” She looked at me up and down again, judging “if you are trying to get to him with that, don’t bother..”
My face went red. Shame burned through me, but I stood my ground. “I’m here for the job. Nothing else.”
She laughed, the sound was cruel. “We’ll see.” She pushed the door open with a click.
The office swallowed me whole.
It was vast—floor-to-ceiling windows let in light, leather chairs that looked untouched, shelves of law and finance books that only rich men pretend to read. And at the end of the room, a chair turned away from me, like the person sitting there had been interrupted.
My heart skipped a beat.
I couldn’t see him yet, but something felt different in the room. My chest squeezed, warning me.
And then I saw him.
I froze.
The man behind the desk looked up, and in that instant, the ground dropped away from under me. My breath caught in my throat, my vision tunneling.
Lucian Backwood.
The name exploded inside me like a memory I had buried too deep for good.
The years disappeared in on themselves, taking me back to that night, that betrayal, that ruin. The one man I had sworn never to see again was sitting right there, impossibly real, impossibly close.
My throat burned. My fingers went numb around the folder. Every part of me wanted to run, to disappear.
But what hurt me most was his face.
Blank. Cold. Detached.
His eyes scanned over me as though I were nothing but another person off the street, another nobody who had walked in off the street.
No hint he knew me.
No memory of what he’d left behind.
As if I never existed
- Writer
