Chapter 2: The Test
1252 Words
The elevator’s polished steel walls reflected her faintly distorted image, a woman with damp hair, clinging to a thin folder like it was a lifeline.
Alexander Cross stood beside her, perfectly still, one hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly on the button panel. His presence filled the air like a silent current.
Amara tried to measure the space between them, three feet, maybe, but it did not matter. His presence seemed to fold the air inward, making the elevator feel smaller than it really was.
She cleared her throat. “I thought the interview was in your office.”
“It is,” he said smoothly, “but the office interview is over.”
Her eyebrows pulled together. “Over?”
“Interviews are rarely accurate,” he replied without glancing at her. “People prepare for them, rehearse answers, try to be who they think I want. I prefer to see who they are when the ground moves under their feet.”
Her chest tightened a bit. “And you plan to move the ground?”
The faintest flicker of amusement touched his lips. “Consider it an earthquake drill.”
The elevator hummed as it descended. She noticed the button he had pressed was not for the lobby, it was for floor twenty-three. Somewhere below his gleaming top-floor empire, but above the building’s main operations.
When the doors slid open, she stepped into chaos.
Phones rang relentlessly, the shrill sound bouncing off glass partitions. Desks overflowed with paperwork, open laptops, and half-empty coffee cups. Several employees were mid-argument, voices low but tense. A woman in a sharp teal blazer was furiously typing, her eyes flicking between three different screens.
The air smelled faintly of toner, fresh coffee, and stress.
Conversations faltered when Alexander stepped out. The energy in the room shifted instantly. Spines straightened. Tapping fingers froze mid-keystroke. A few people glanced at him, quick, nervous glances, before pretending to be absorbed in their work.
A young man in a navy suit rushed over, a tablet clutched to his chest. “Mr. Cross, the investors’ call is in fifteen minutes, but the Q3 report—” He stopped, eyes landing on Amara. His brow furrowed. “She’s…?”
“My candidate,” Alexander said. His voice did not rise, but it carried, people within earshot immediately ducked their heads lower.
The man blinked, clearly confused. “I… see.”
Alexander turned to Amara, and for a moment, the room felt like it was watching.
“You have ten minutes to find the missing Q3 financial report,” he said.
She stared at him. “The… what?”
“The missing Q3 report,” he repeated evenly. “Without it, the call with our investors will be a disaster. No one here will help you. If you can’t find it in time, the interview is over.”
Her lips parted. “You’re serious?”
“I’m always serious.” His watch caught the light as he glanced at it. “Starting now.”
And with that, he walked away, leaving her planted in the center of the storm.
For a heartbeat, she simply stood there, folder pressed to her ribs. Her brain was still catching up. She had no idea where anything was kept, didn’t know these people, didn’t even know where to start.
But one thing was certain — she was not going to let Alexander Cross dismiss her like she was already a failure.
She placed her own folder on the nearest desk and began scanning the room. Desks were lined in rows, each one cluttered with papers, folders, and Post-it notes. Some were neat stacks; others looked like paper avalanches waiting to happen.
She approached the first desk. A tall man with thin glasses and a pinched mouth sat there, typing.
“Excuse me—”
He didn’t look up. “Can’t help you. Orders from the top.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. Fine.
She moved on to another desk, glancing over loose sheets and file folders. She scanned for anything marked Q3. A few bore the label, but flipping through them showed they were either incomplete or unrelated.
Her pulse ticked louder in her ears. Nine minutes.
Near the far wall, she spotted a filing cabinet half-open. She walked over quickly, tugging the drawer. It stuck halfway — overstuffed. She crouched down, scanning labels. Q2 Payroll. Q4 Marketing. Q3 HR. Not the right one.
The woman in the teal blazer suddenly said, without looking away from her screen, “If I were looking for Q3 finance, I would not be looking there.”
Amara froze. “Where would you look?”
The woman’s fingers didn’t stop typing. “I’m not helping you. Just… saying.”
The hint was almost dangerous, like the woman wanted her to succeed but couldn’t be seen giving her real help. Amara’s eyes flicked toward Alexander in the distance, but he wasn’t watching her anymore… or at least, it looked that way.
Amara straightened, scanning the room again. The only area she hadn’t checked was a cluttered table near the back, half-covered by a leaning tower of binders. She made her way over, weaving between desks.
Eight minutes.
A thick binder slid when she shifted a smaller folder aside, nearly toppling. She caught it, barely, and spotted a flash of a label: Q3 – Draft.
Her pulse jumped. She pulled it out, flipping pages. It was not the full report, only rough numbers and handwritten notes.
Not enough.
She scanned the remaining stacks. Buried under a pile of blue folders, she saw a corner of something marked in bold black: Q3 FINANCE – FINAL.
Yes.
She tugged it free, but as she did, several loose sheets slipped from inside, scattering to the floor.
Seven minutes.
She dropped to her knees, gathering them quickly. Her hands shook slightly, the scent of ink and paper sharp in her nose. Every second felt louder than the one before.
But as she bent down to grab the last page, she noticed something odd. A note scribbled in red ink at the margin of the final report:
“Check the numbers. Someone’s lying.”
Her breath hitched. A warning? A mistake? Or sabotage?
She had no time to think.
When she stood, clutching the report, she looked up, and Alexander was standing at the edge of the chaos, watching her.
His expression was unreadable. He glanced at his watch again, then at the file in her hands.
She took a breath and walked toward him, forcing herself to match his calm pace. The room seemed to hold its breath as she crossed it.
She stopped in front of him, held out the report. “Q3 Finance. Final version. Eight minutes to spare.”
For the first time, his eyes softened, not quite approval, but something close.
“Follow me,” he said simply.
As they stepped into the elevator together, Amara realized her heart was still racing, and not just from the search.
The elevator’s polished steel walls reflected her faintly distorted image, a woman with damp hair, standing rigid, clutching an empty folder now that the Q3 report was no longer in her possession.
Alexander Cross stood beside her like a man carved out of composure, one hand in his pocket, the other resting loosely by his side.
The air in here was different from downstairs, cooler, quieter, but heavy in a way that made her hyper-aware of every breath she took.
- Writer
