Played 2
1025 Words
Elara
I didn't sleep a wink. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that invitation email and felt the crushing weight of Miller’s expectations. I spent the morning obsessing over my outfit, choosing something that screamed professional but didn't look like I was trying too hard. I needed to look like a journalist who belonged in the room with a man like Chase Caruso, not some desperate girl hoping for a scrap of attention. By the time I stepped out of my apartment, my nerves were a tight knot in my gut, and I could feel the caffeine from my third espresso vibrating in my fingertips.
The Caruso Group headquarters was a monolith of glass and steel that seemed to swallow everything around it. Walking through the front doors felt like entering a different dimension—one where the air was filtered and the people moved with a calculated, cold precision. I walked straight to the reception desk, my heels clicking on the marble.
The receptionist didn't even look up at first. She was typing away with a speed that suggested she’d rather be anywhere else. When she finally acknowledged me, her expression was blank, a professional mask that told me I was just another appointment on a very long list.
"I'm here for the interview with Mr. Caruso," I said, sliding my ID and the confirmation email toward her.
She glanced at the screen, then back at me. "Please wait in the lobby. I'll notify the secretary, and she will inform the president when he's ready for you."
Simple. Straightforward. I took a seat in the lobby, a space so vast and sterile it felt more like a museum than an office. A few minutes later, a server appeared and handed me a glass of water. I took it, thinking it was a nice touch, a small gesture of hospitality. I sipped it slowly, trying to calm my breathing and run through my questions one last time in my head.
Then, the minutes started to bleed into each other.
Ten minutes became twenty. Twenty became forty. I sat there, staring at the digital clock on the wall, watching the seconds tick by with agonizing slowness. Every time the elevator doors opened, I straightened my back and put on my best professional smile, only to watch some other executive stride past me without a second glance.
The server came back twice more to refill my water. I didn't want it, but I drank it anyway, mostly because I didn't know what else to do with my hands. By the time an hour had passed, I felt like a human water balloon. My stomach was bloated, and the initial excitement had curdled into a simmering, hot rage.
You have got to be kidding me, I muttered under my breath.
I checked my watch again. I had been sitting in this overpriced waiting room for over an hour. I knew how this worked. This wasn't an accident; it was a power play. He wanted me to wait. He wanted me to feel small, insignificant, and desperate for his time. He wanted me to be so grateful when he finally appeared that I’d forget to ask the hard questions.
I sat there for another thirty minutes, my patience completely evaporated. The silence of the lobby was starting to feel suffocating. I looked at the receptionist, who was still ignoring me, and then at the empty hallway leading to the executive offices.
He can go f**k himself, I thought, the words sharp and clear in my mind.
I wasn't a doormat. I had a deadline, a manager who would skin me alive if I came back empty-handed, and a level of self-respect that didn't allow me to be treated like a piece of furniture. I didn't care if this was my only shot at the story. If this was how Chase Caruso treated people, then he wasn't worth the ink in my pen.
I stood up abruptly, the movement jarring the people sitting nearby. I didn't say a word to the receptionist. I didn't ask for a reschedule or leave a note. I just turned on my heel and marched toward the elevators, my anger fueling every step. I was done playing his game. I was going to walk out of this building, go back to Miller, and tell him that the "ghost" of the Caruso Group was nothing more than a coward who couldn't even show up for his own appointment.
I hit the button for the ground floor and stepped into the elevator just as the doors were beginning to slide shut. But as I turned to face the back, the doors jerked open again, forced back by a hand.
I didn't have time to react. I stepped back, losing my balance for a split second, and bumped squarely into a broad chest. The impact was solid, like hitting a wall of expensive wool and muscle. I stumbled, my bag slipping from my shoulder, and I instinctively reached out to steady myself, my hand landing flat against a crisp white shirt.
I looked up, and the air left my lungs.
He was taller than the photos. His eyes were a piercing, cold shade that seemed to read my entire history in a single glance. He didn't move; he just stood there, looking down at me with an expression of mild amusement. His gaze dropped to the ID card hanging around my neck, reading my name and company with a slow, deliberate focus.
This was him. This was Chase Caruso.
I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs, the anger from a moment ago colliding with a sudden, electric jolt of tension. I was still touching him, my palm pressed against his chest, and I could feel the steady thrum of his heart beneath the fabric.
A woman stepped into the elevator behind him, her face tight with a mix of apology and stress. She looked at me, then at the man beside me.
"Oh right," she said, her voice cutting through the silence. "Sir, you were supposed to be having an interview with the Daily company."
- Writer
