Love Beyond Every Word

Chapter2:The Interview From Hell

The 42nd floor of Crisoms Tech didn’t smell like coffee. It smelled like money.

Glass. Cold steel. The faint hint of someone’s $200 cologne. And a reception desk that looked like it was carved from one piece of marble.

Calista Cole was sweating through her thrifted blazer.

She’d run three blocks from the subway because the elevator in her building was broken again. Her folder was damp in her hands. Inside were the only things she had: printed mockups, a resume typed on her phone at 3am, and a photo of Granny Lisa smiling from her hospital bed last Christmas.

“Calista Cole? 9:00 with Mr. Crisoms?” the receptionist asked, typing without looking up.

“That’s me.” Calista tried to sound confident. Her voice cracked anyway.

The glass doors to the corner office opened before she could answer.

Rowan Crisoms.

Navy suit. Sleeves rolled. No tie. He looked exactly like the jerk from Bloom & Bean 20 minutes ago, except now he had the entire New York skyline behind him like it was his personal screensaver.

His eyes landed on her. Paused. Just for a second.

“Ms. Cole,” he said. Flat. “You’re late.”

“I’m seven minutes late,” Calista corrected before she could stop herself. “The 4 train was delayed.”

Rowan didn’t respond. He just turned and walked into his office, expecting her to follow.

She did.

His office was huge. Too big. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a desk that could fit a family of four, and zero clutter. No family photos. No coffee mug. Just two monitors and a Montblanc pen lying next to a contract.

“Sit,” he said, finally looking at her.

Calista sat. The chair was leather and cold.

Rowan picked up her resume. “Calista Cole. 23. No degree. Three jobs in the last two years. Barista. Retail associate. Freelance graphic design.”

He said it like he was listing charges.

“I did online certification courses,” Calista said quickly. “And I’ve been working since I was 16. I support my grandmother. Full time. I don’t have time to sit in lectures for four years when there are medical bills to pay.”

Rowan looked up from the paper. Really looked at her this time. At the tired under her eyes. At the way she was holding that folder like a shield.

“Portfolio,” he said.

She slid it across the desk. Her hands were shaking. Inside: a logo for a Bronx community center, packaging for a small bakery in Queens, a full brand rebrand she’d done for free because the owner was a single mom.

Rowan flipped through it. Slow. No expression.

The silence was killing her.

Finally he closed the folder. “It’s rough,” he said. “But there’s talent here. You think in color, not in boxes.”

Calista exhaled. She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. “Thank you.”

“You yelled at me in a coffee shop this morning.”

Calista’s stomach dropped. “I did not yell.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘Maybe learn to order like a normal human before the rest of us die of old age.’”

Okay. She had yelled.

“I was stressed,” Calista said. “And you were taking ten minutes to order coffee.”

Rowan leaned back against his desk. “We manage a 4 billion dollar company here, Ms. Cole. Everyone is stressed. The difference is, our people don’t take it out on baristas. Or CEOs.”

Calista met his eyes. “Then maybe CEOs shouldn’t act like they own the line.”

Something flickered across his face. Surprise? Amusement? It was gone too fast to tell.

He picked up the pen and signed the top page of the contract on his desk. Then he slid it to her.

“Junior Designer. 62,000 a year. Benefits after 90 days. You report to Marissa in Creative, but you’ll also be in meetings with me. Directly.”

Calista stared at the number. 62K. That was Granny’s chemo. That was rent. That was breathing room for the first time in years.

“You’re offering me the job?” she asked, dumb.

“I’m giving you a shot,” Rowan corrected. “Don’t waste it. Don’t be late. Don’t talk back in meetings. And don’t make me regret hiring the woman who insulted me before 9am.”

Calista signed her name before her hand could shake.

As she stood, Rowan added, “One more thing, Ms. Cole.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t care who you fought with this morning. In this building, you work hard, you keep your head down, and you deliver. Can you do that?”

Calista lifted her chin. “I don’t quit. Ever.”

“Good,” Rowan said. “Monday. 8am. Don’t be late.”

She walked out of that office on legs that barely worked.

She had the job . Hope I last here she muttered as a silent prayer.

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