The Interview
1043 Words
The thirty fourth floor smelled faintly of ozone and something sweeter, expensive, maybe beeswax or leather polish.
Elena Hart hesitated just inside the elevator doors, fingers tightening on her résumé folder.
The floor gleamed like still water, the kind of marble that showed everything: footprints, dust, fear. Her own shoes — dull black pumps, one heel nicked — stood out like bruises against the pristine white.
She adjusted her thrift store blazer for the third time. The shoulders sat too high, the sleeves too short. Even after ironing, it carried the faint lavender and mothball scent of whoever wore it before her.
The receptionist didn’t even look up, just tilted her head toward a set of double glass doors at the end of the hall.
Fine.
Elena walked forward, her heels clicking louder than she liked. The sound bounced between the glass walls, making her feel like every step announced how out of place she was.
She passed a pair of suits murmuring into their phones. One of them glanced at her over his shoulder — the kind of glance people give stray dogs — then went back to his conversation.
When she reached the doors, she paused long enough to catch herself in the reflection:
Chin up. Shoulders back. Smile.
That was the plan.
The doors opened more easily than she expected, gliding inward like they were welcoming her.
But the man inside clearly wasn’t.
He wasn’t even at his desk.
He stood by the windows instead, one hand in his pocket, watching the city like he owned every square inch of it. The skyline stretched behind him in sharp, dizzying lines; the black walls and chrome fixtures only added to the sense that the room belonged to him, and anyone else was just borrowing space.
Elena cleared her throat.
Her voice cracked slightly when she spoke.
“Mr. Cole?”
That got his attention.
He turned his head slowly, deliberately, and looked at her the way you might look at a sound you don’t recognize, weighing whether it’s worth bothering about. His eyes were pale gray, colder than the glass around them. His hair was dark, clipped close at the sides but a little longer at the top. And even from across the room, he made her feel shorter, smaller.
“You’re not what I pictured,” he said finally.
She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. “I—thank you?” she tried, though it came out more like a question.
That earned her the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, more like he was amused by something she didn’t understand yet.
“You’re nervous,” he observed.
Elena swallowed.
“Yes. Of course. This job means a lot to me.”
He stepped closer then not quickly, but decisively enough that she tightened her grip on her folder.
When he stopped, he was close enough that she noticed the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Up close, he smelled like cedar and something sharper — a faint metallic edge she couldn’t name.
“You shouldn’t admit that,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because it makes you sound like you’ll do anything.”
The words hung between them. Elena straightened her back — or tried to.
“And what if I will?” she asked, softer than she intended but not backing down.
That stopped him. Just for a second. Then he tilted his head, studying her like she’d just answered a question on a test nobody else had passed.
“Then we might get along after all,” he murmured.
He brushed past her, close enough that her shoulder tingled where his jacket brushed it — and moved to his desk.
He didn’t sit.
Instead, he picked up a single sheet of heavy paper from the desk and set it between them.
“This is the contract,” he said. “Take it home. Read it. If you’re smart, you’ll walk away. If you’re desperate, you’ll sign and come back tomorrow.”
That stunned her. She’d expected questions, tests, maybe a cold dismissal.
Not… this.
“You don’t even want to know if I’m qualified?” she asked.
He actually laughed — dry, short, without humor.
“Qualified for what?”
“For… whatever it is you’re hiring me to do,” she said, though her voice wobbled on the last few words.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his palms on the desk as though he was about to pounce.
“Miss Hart,” he said, his voice low enough that she leaned in without realizing, “if you’re here for the job you think this is, you’re already in the wrong office.”
That chilled her more than she wanted to admit.
But instead of retreating, she lifted her chin and held his gaze.
Something flickered behind his eyes — a faint spark of something other than disdain.
“You’ve already decided,” he added.
“I—”
“No need to say it out loud.”
Then he straightened, adjusted his cufflinks — a gesture she noticed he performed precisely, like it meant more to him than she understood — and sat down at last, turning his chair slightly toward the window.
He picked up a pen and began scribbling notes in the margin of a document, effectively dismissing her.
But Elena didn’t move yet.
Her eyes drifted to the edge of his desk where a strange object sat — a small, battered chess piece, a white knight. Out of place among all the polished chrome and crystal.
She opened her mouth to ask about it but stopped herself. He noticed anyway. His hand stilled. His gaze snapped up to hers.
And for a brief moment, his expression changed — something sharp softening into something she couldn’t quite name — before he masked it again.
“You can go now,” he said.
Her cheeks flushed as she gathered her folder. But as she reached the door, his voice stopped her once more:
“Miss Hart.” She turned.
His eyes met hers, flat and steady.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
The door closed behind her with a soft, final click.
- Writer
