Played 3
838 Words
Elara
I sat across from him, the air in the office thick with a tension I couldn't quite place. I laid out my notebook, my recorder, and the research files on the mahogany desk between us. I tried to keep my hands steady, focusing on the task. This was the break I needed, the story that could finally shut Miller up and put me on the map.
The interview started off well enough. I asked about the Caruso Group’s expansion and his philosophy on market volatility. He answered, but he wasn't really engaging with the questions. He wasn't looking at my notes or the recorder; he was looking at me. It wasn't a professional glance. It was a slow, heavy stare that felt like it was stripping away my blazer and my composure.
I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs and leaning forward to redirect his attention to the documents. I fought the urge to fidget, doing everything in my power to stay professional. I kept my voice neutral, my questions sharp. But Chase Caruso didn't seem to care about the interview at all. He leaned back in his leather chair, his posture relaxed, almost bored, while his eyes remained locked on mine.
The silence stretched for a few seconds too long after my last question. I waited for an answer, but instead, he spoke.
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
I stopped mid-sentence, my pen hovering over the paper. "Excuse me?"
"Well, do you?" he asked. His voice was flat, devoid of any curiosity, as if he were asking about the weather.
I felt a flash of heat rise up my neck. I cleared my throat and tried to steer the conversation back. "Sir, I don't think that's part of what we're discussing. If we could get back to the merger—"
He didn't let me finish. He leaned back further, his eyes scanning me from head to toe in a way that made my skin prickle. "I see. If you don't have one, would you mind having dinner with me?"
I stared at him, completely floored. I had expected arrogance, maybe some coldness, but this was blatant. This was an insult. I tightened my grip on my pen.
"Sir, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to do that," I replied, my voice clipped.
The shift in his demeanor was instant. The mild amusement vanished, replaced by a cold, hard indifference. He didn't even blink.
"Excuse me. This interview is over," he said.
The words hit me like a slap. I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. I started gathering my things, my heart racing with a mix of shock and anger. I couldn't believe the nerve of this man. I had waited for hours, dealt with his power games in the lobby, and now he was tossing me out because I wouldn't play along with his flirtations.
As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me.
"It was really a good offer," he said, his tone mocking. "You get to have one dinner with me. Isn't that what you women want? A one-night stand with no strings attached."
Something inside me snapped. All the frustration from the morning—the dismissive wave from Miller, the hour of waiting in that sterile lobby, the bloated feeling in my stomach, and now this blatant assumption that I was some cheap thrill he could buy with a dinner invitation—it all boiled over.
I didn't think. I didn't calculate the risk to my career or the potential fallout. I just reacted.
I spun around, my eyes landing on the glass of water sitting on the edge of his desk. I grabbed it in one swift motion and dumped the entire thing directly over his head.
The water splashed across his forehead, soaking into his hair and dripping down his expensive white shirt. He didn't move. He didn't even flinch. He just sat there, drenched, staring at me with an expression that was now entirely unreadable.
"Don't be so delusional," I spat.
I didn't wait for a reaction. I grabbed my bag and marched out of the office, my heels clicking loudly against the floor. I didn't look back. I pushed through the doors and headed for the exit, the adrenaline still surging through my veins.
But as soon as I hit the cool air of the hallway, the adrenaline vanished, leaving a hollow, sinking feeling in its place. I stopped walking and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes.
What the hell did I just do?
I had just assaulted the most powerful man in the city. I had ruined the only lead I had for the story of the year. I could already see Miller's face when I told him I'd been kicked out of the Caruso Group—or worse, when Caruso decided to sue me or get me blacklisted from every publication in the state.
I groaned, sliding my hand over my face. Why can't I control my goddamn temper?
- Writer
