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Lena

T he conference room is cold, expensive, controlled. The kind of place where even oxygen probably has to get approval before it circulates.

A man waits inside. He doesn’t have to introduce himself. I know exactly who he is. Most people do.

Ellis Harrison.

Founder. CEO. The man in charge of all this.

I knew he might be involved in the hiring process, but I assumed I’d be dealing with some middle-manager gatekeeper. Not him directly.

He stands when I enter. His smile is carefully measured, like everything else in this office.

“Miss Blackwell,” he says, watching me cross the room. I don’t know why, but I already don’t like how much space his voice takes up.

I take the only empty seat, immediately noticing that it sits lower than his. A deliberate move. A power play.

I hate that I notice it. But I sit anyway.

He studies me like a curiosity rather than a candidate. “You come highly recommended.”

“Thank you,” I say, though I have no idea who supposedly recommended me.

He folds his hands, studying me. “Tell me, what do you know about Shergar Corporation?”

I hesitate. “You’re a research company?”

A slow smile. Not amused. Not pleased. Just… waiting.

“What kind of research?”

I should have seen that coming. I hesitate just long enough for him to notice.

“Various industries,” I say, but the moment the words leave my mouth, I know they sound ridiculous.

Ellis hums, the sound low, considering.

Then, out of nowhere, he asks:

“Do you know who I am?”

The question is abrupt. It feels like a trick.

I meet his gaze. “I do.”

“And what have you heard?”

I smile. “That you run a successful company.”

A beat. Then, with a half-smile:

“And that you like knowing what people say about you.”

His expression doesn’t change. “That’s very diplomatic.”

I say nothing.

He studies me for a long moment. “You’re recently divorced, correct?”

It’s a gut punch—an unexpected question that shouldn’t matter, but somehow does.

I keep my expression even. “Yes. Very.”

He nods, as if that confirms something, though I have no idea what.

“Personal questions this early?” I say lightly. “Are you testing my adaptability, or is this just your standard approach to small talk?”

His mouth tilts slightly. “Would it make a difference?”

“I guess that depends on whether I pass.”

Ellis watches me, the silence stretching longer than comfortable. Then, he leans back in his chair. “Why do you want this job?”

I know there’s a right answer. A correct way to pass this test.

So I tell him the truth. “Because I desperately need it.”

Something shifts in his gaze. He likes that answer.

He reclines further in his chair. “Well, then, congratulations, Miss Blackwell. The job is yours.”

“Wait—what? You’re serious?”

Ellis tilts his head slightly, amused. “Yes. Very. I desperately need a secretary.”

It’s such a perfect, cold-blooded answer that I almost laugh.

Almost.

He stands, extending his hand to me. I rise to meet him, my legs shaky as I reach out. His grip is firm, deliberate—like a man who never makes a deal he doesn’t intend to collect on. He tells me someone will be in touch, asks if I have any questions.

I don’t, none that come to mind. I’m too busy being thankful my days with Marjorie breathing down my neck are coming to an end. Plus, I’ll finally get to stop sleeping in the front seat of my Honda. I’ll get to experience having an actual bed again. Maybe not at first, but eventually. Within a few pay periods, for sure.

When I step out of the elevator and into the lobby, I check my phone. I have no idea what beds even cost these days.

One new email.

From: Shergar HR

Subject: Welcome to Shergar Corporation.

And below it?—

A second email.

I stare at the screen. The noise of the street outside feels distant, muffled, like the world just shifted without telling me.

From: anon@noreply

No subject. No greeting. Just a single line of text:

You should have left when you had the chance.