The Interview
863 Words
Elena pov
I arrived at Blackwood Enterprises at exactly nine o’clock.
The skyscraper towered above me like a wall of glass and steel, glittering in the morning sun. For a moment, my courage faltered. I felt impossibly small beneath it, just a girl with secondhand shoes and a trembling heart.
But I forced myself to breathe, to steady my grip on the folder of my neatly arranged papers. You made it this far. Don’t turn back now. I consoled myself.
Inside, the marble floors gleamed, and the air smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive perfume. A receptionist with a practiced smile directed me to the twenty-second floor.
“Take the elevators to the left,” she said crisply.
I nodded, clutching my folder like a lifeline. I hurried across the lobby too quickly.
Because I didn't see the man stepping out of the opposite corridor until it was too late.
My elbow clipped his arm, and the coffee i held in my other hand sloshed violently, spilling across his dark suit. My folder slipped, papers scattering across the pristine floor.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” I gasped, dropping to my knees to gather the pages. My cheeks burned.
The man’s voice was low, calm, with an edge of authority. “Careful.”
I dared a glance up sharp eyes, perfectly cut features, a presence that radiated command. Whoever he was, he wasn’t someone she could afford to anger. Although he looked familiar, I could not pinpoint where I had seen him. I am sure I am just imagining things.
“I'm so sorry,” I stammered again, clutching the wrinkled papers. He didn’t answer, only studied me for a heartbeat before moving on, his stride unbroken.
My pulse was hammered. I swallowed hard, gathered my things, and forced myself into the elevator.
On the twenty-second floor, I entered a sleek waiting area. There were already others there, five ladies and two gents.
They were dressed like they had stepped straight out of glossy magazines, tailored suits, designer handbags, makeup expertly applied, heels clicking confidently against the floor.
I shrank into my chair, smoothing the wrinkles from my thrift-store blouse. Compared to them, I felt like a child playing dress-up.
Worse, I noticed the women’s dresses were startlingly short, their blouses low-cut, their perfume heavy in the air. They laughed softly among themselves, shooting glances at the closed office door as though they knew a secret I didn't.
My stomach twisted. You don’t belong here. My mind kept screaming at me.
But I pressed my hands to my knees, willing myself to stay. Just get through it. You promised yourself you’d try.
Names were called one by one.
The first woman went in smiling. She came out ten minutes later with mascara streaks down her cheeks.
The second, a man in a sharp navy suit, left muttering curses under his breath.
One after another, the hopeful faces crumbled. Some left pale and furious, others tearful, others stone-faced with disappointment.
My nerves frayed with every slammed door and every muffled sob. What was happening there? What kind of interview left people broken?
By the time the secretary finally called, “Elena Rivera?” my throat was dry and my palms clammy.
The office was vast, sleek, and intimidating. The man behind the desk barely looked up as she entered.
“Sit.”
His voice was deep, commanding.
I lowered myself onto the chair, my folder trembling slightly in my hands. When I looked up I was shocked to discover that it was the man that I accidentally splashed my coffee on.
Instantly, I lost hope as there was no way I could get the job after that.
The questions came sharp and fast about my education, my work experience, my strengths, my weaknesses. There were moments I stumbled, moments I thought I had ruined everything. But each time, I forced myself to take a breath, to answer honestly.
I don't have a degree in business. I hadn't traveled the world or worked at top firms. But I knew how to work hard. I knew how to endure.
And as the minutes stretched on, something shifted. I stopped trying to be impressive and simply spoke to myself about perseverance, about learning quickly, about refusing to give up no matter how bleak things looked.
By the end, the man behind the desk closed my file and looked up at me fully for the first time.
His eyes were dark, piercing, unreadable. My breath caught.
“You’ll report here tomorrow,” he said. “Eight a.m. sharp.”
I blinked, stunned. “I… I got the job?”
His expression didn’t change. “Don’t make me regret it.”
I surged to my feet, my folder clutched tightly. “Thank you. Thank you so much. You won’t regret it. I promise.”
He gave no answer, already glancing back at his papers. But I didn't care.
She had the job.
My chest felt light, my heart racing as I left the office.
For the first time in a very long time, the future didn’t look like a dark tunnel.
It looked like a possibility.
- Writer
