CHAPTER 3
925 Words
JULIANA
New York looked nothing like the movies.
It was louder, faster, and somehow colder.
I barely slept the night before.
Not because of jet lag — my body was too wired for that — but because the hotel the company booked for me was the kind of place that made you hyper-aware you didn’t belong. Everything was soft and elegant: the warm lighting, the impossibly plush bed, the complimentary robe that probably cost more than my monthly rent. It should’ve relaxed me.
Lol.
But then, it reminded me of how quickly my life had spiraled in forty-eight hours, and how much I needed this interview to go right.
Every time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed the mess I left behind — Michael, Judy, the betrayal — then abruptly switched to the stranger from the airport. His smirk, his voice, the unsettling confidence with which he said my name. I hated that my mind kept drifting back to him. I didn’t want him in my head at all.
By morning, my nerves were tap-dancing in my stomach as I headed to the interview.
The cab ride from the hotel was a blur of billboards, yellow taxis, and horns that never stopped screaming. By the time we pulled up in front of the glass-and-steel tower at East 47th, my stomach was a knot of nerves and caffeine.
The building itself was impossible to ignore. Ford Corporation. The letters gleamed on the marble facade like they’d never known failure. This was where my interview was supposed to be—one of the biggest firms on the East Coast, the kind of place where people waited years just to get an unpaid internship.
Inside, everything smelled faintly of cedar and wealth. There was this cool, quiet efficiency in the air. It was the kind of world that ran on precision and privilege. I like it here.
A woman in a navy blazer greeted me at the front desk. “Miss Sachs, good morning. Welcome to Ford Corporation. You’re scheduled for 11 a.m.?”
“Yes,” I managed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear.
“Wonderful. Mr. Luther will see you shortly. Please, right this way.”
Mr. Luther. The name sounded familiar—maybe from the company’s website or one of the magazine’s bylines. Still, my heart pounded as the elevator climbed, and I forced myself to rehearse answers in my head: “…I have a very strong writing portfolio and significant newsroom experience, I’m passionate about storytelling—
The doors slid open.
I stepped into a hallway lined with glass offices and abstract art. Every surface gleamed. Every person seemed to have a purpose. Damn! I really want to belong there—I needed to.
The assistant gestured to a door at the far end. “He’s expecting you.”
I nodded, swallowed hard, and pushed the door open.
And I received the shock of my life.
Sitting behind a minimalist black desk, sleeves rolled up, eyes steady and unreadable, was him.
The stranger from the airport.
For a second, the air left my lungs. He didn’t look surprised. Not even mildly amused. Just calm—like he’d been waiting for me to realize it.
“You,” I whispered.
He smiled faintly. “Miss Sachs.”
“I—this can’t be—what are you doing here?”
“I work here,” he said simply, standing to button his suit jacket. “Technically, I own here.”
My pulse stuttered. “You’re the CEO?”
“That’s one of my titles.” He gestured toward the chair opposite him. “Please, sit.”
I didn’t. “You arranged this.”
He didn’t deny it. “I invited you, yes.”
My thoughts scrambled. “I applied weeks ago. The company emailed me. The flight—”
“—was arranged by our HR team,” he finished easily. “At my request.”
I felt my hands go cold. “Why?”
He studied me with that same quiet curiosity from the airport. “Because I read your portfolio. Your writing and approach were… raw. Angry, but observant. The kind of perspective most journalists lose once the world starts paying them. I wanted to see if you were as interesting in person as you are on paper.”
I laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “You could’ve just emailed me like a normal employer.”
“Normal doesn’t get my attention,” he said.
I crossed my arms, trying to regain control. “So what now? You test my ‘raw potential’ over dinner? Offer me a job I didn’t earn?”
He shook his head. “This isn’t about a job, Juliana.”
“Then what is it about?”
He stepped closer, hands in his pockets, the city skyline glinting behind him. “You’re drowning in student loans. You’ve been supporting yourself since nineteen. You don’t have family to fall back on. And yet, you still refuse to break. That kind of resilience is… rare.”
My heart pounded harder. “You did a background check on me?”
He didn’t answer. He just kept looking at me.
I took a shaky breath. “What do you really want from me?”
He stopped a few feet away, voice calm—almost too calm.
And with the kind of finality that didn’t allow room for misunderstanding, he said the words that made my stomach drop and my world tilt off its axis.
“Marry me.”
- Writer
