Obsessed

Chapter Five – The Interview

( Selena pov )

The next evening arrived faster than I wanted it to.

Time had a way of doing that when you were avoiding something compressing, folding in on itself, pushing you toward moments you weren’t ready to face. I told myself I was calm as I dressed, that my hands didn’t linger too long on each choice, that the faint tension in my chest was nothing more than nerves.

It was just an interview.

Just curiosity.

That was the lie I repeated as I stepped into the waiting car, as the city lights slid past the window in soft blurs of gold and white. But when the driverless elevator doors closed behind me later, sealing me inside a mirrored column of silence, my reflection told a different story.

I looked… alert. Too aware.

The kind of awareness that comes before something changes.

Valen Group International occupied the uppermost floors of a glass tower that seemed to pierce the clouds rather than touch them. The ascent was smooth, soundless. No music. No announcements. Just the faint hum of controlled motion and the soft reflection of my own breathing.

When the doors opened, the world shifted.

The reception area was minimalist perfection: ivory walls untouched by ornament, soft recessed lighting that cast no harsh shadows, gold accents so subtle they felt expensive without trying. Nothing screamed wealth. It whispered.

Even the air felt curated. Cool, faintly scented with white tea and rain, like a memory rather than a smell.

A woman behind the reception desk looked up and smiled, her expression perfectly balanced between warmth and professionalism.

“Miss Adeyemi,” she said, already knowing who I was. “Welcome to Valen Group. Please, have a seat. Mr. King will see you shortly.”

Mr. King.

The name slid into my thoughts and settled there, heavy and undefined. I thanked her and moved toward the seating area, my heels sinking slightly into the plush velvet carpet. The chairs were low and elegant, designed to make you relax or to remind you subtly that you were a guest here.

I chose one facing the windows.

The city stretched endlessly below, New York alive and restless, a river of headlights and movement. From this height, the chaos softened into something almost beautiful. Distant. Controlled.

That word again.

No one else was waiting. No phones rang. No footsteps echoed. The receptionist typed quietly, her movements precise. The silence pressed in, not uncomfortable, but intentional, the kind that forced you inward.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

I shifted slightly, smoothing my skirt, forcing myself to breathe normally. I told myself the delay meant nothing. High-level companies ran on their own time. Still, a part of me remained alert, listening for something I couldn’t define.

When footsteps finally approached from the far end of the hall, I felt them before I saw him.

He was tall, immaculately dressed, his suit cut with restraint rather than flair. His presence was noticeable, but not overwhelming the kind of man who fit into power structures rather than bending them around himself.

He wasn’t Dominic.

I knew that instantly. The air didn’t change the way it had that night. My pulse didn’t spike. His gaze didn’t linger too long.

“Miss Ward,” he said, extending a hand. “Thank you for coming. I’m Aaron King.”

His smile was polite, measured. Safe.

He led me down a long corridor lined with abstract art sharp lines, muted colors, pieces that felt more intellectual than emotional. Everything about the space was deliberate, as though each decision had been filtered through the same mind.

Walking beside him felt like moving deeper into a design one I hadn’t helped create.

The interview room was spacious, all glass and marble and controlled light. One chair waited for me across a sleek table, positioned so that the city lights spilled in at my back. I noticed the details immediately. Sitting there would place me slightly in silhouette.

Exposed. But not powerless.

“Please,” Mr. King said, gesturing for me to sit.

He spoke easily, confidently, his questions precise but impersonal. He asked about my design philosophy, my creative process, and how I handled confidential clients. I answered smoothly, grateful for the grounding familiarity of professional language.

Then he slid a slim folder across the table.

“We’ve reviewed your portfolio extensively,” he said. “Your work is exceptional. Valen Group is developing a private branding project with highly confidential, limited exposure. Your style aligns perfectly.”

His words were polished. Too polished.

As I opened the folder, my fingers brushed against the paper, and that was when I saw it the watermark embossed faintly at the corner.

A single letter.

V.

Sharp. Clean. Deliberate.

Something inside me tightened.

I didn’t know why the symbol felt familiar, but it did like déjà vu without memory. My pulse quickened, and for a fleeting second, I saw rain on glass, a dark room lit by monitors, a voice low and calm in the dark.

I swallowed and forced my focus back to the room.

“Will I meet the client?” I asked.

Mr. King paused.

Just long enough.

“Eventually,” he said. “He prefers to remain private until contracts are finalized.”

He.

The word settled uneasily in my chest. I nodded anyway, as if this were normal, as if high-profile secrecy didn’t echo too closely with a man I couldn’t stop thinking about.

The meeting ended politely. Cordial handshakes. Reassurances of follow-up. Promises of opportunity.

I thanked him. I smiled.

I played my role.

But as the elevator doors closed around me once more, sealing me back into that reflective silence, I felt it shift. Subtle, but irreversible.

This wasn’t just a job.

It was a door opening.

I should have felt proud. Validated. Excited. This was the kind of opportunity designers dreamed of prestige, influence, access.

Instead, what settled over me was something colder.

Something intimate.

I felt… chosen.

And instinct told me that being chosen was far more dangerous than being wanted.