Interview

Bam!

Anne slams the fridge shut, her frustration thick in the air. "Really? IT support? Really?" She throws her hands up. "I don't know much about tech jobs, but that sounds like a dead-end. We can't keep doing this, Tyler. We need better!"

I sigh, my shoulders slumping. "Anne, there's nothing else available right now. Either I stay home or take the job."

Eric, sitting across from me, leans forward. "Look, my company promotes fast. You've got the skills. Once they see what you're capable of, the rest will be easy. The pay's good, too."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. "I'm not thrilled about it either, but it's the best I've got right now."

Anne scoffs. "Fifty thousand? That's nothing. Tyler was making more back in L.A."

Eric's eyes flick to her, then back to me, his voice tightening. "Tyler needs our support right now, not your crap. Can we not do this right now?"

Anne folds her arms, clearly not impressed, but she nods. "Fine. Just get the job."

The tension thickens like a fog. This argument's been brewing since I crashed at Eric's place after I lost everything in L.A.

I rub my temples, feeling the weight of everything. "The interview's in two hours. We need to focus."

Eric exhales sharply, looking at the pile of suits on the bed. I start flipping through them, but Anne interrupts again.

"You can't wear that."

I glance at the suit. "Why not?"

"Because it's over the top for an IT job," she says, wrinkling her nose. "You need something smart but not... flashy. Go with trousers and a button-down that says 'I know what I'm doing' but not 'I own the place.'"

"This is IT support, not a runway show," Eric mutters.

"Can you stop nitpicking everything I say?"

"Guys! Enough!" I snap, cutting through the noise. "I'll wear the damn suit. I need to look professional."

Anne sighs, but comes over and tucks a stray strand of my blonde hair behind my ear, her eyes hard. "You better work your ass off and get that promotion. I can't live like this forever."

She gives me a pout and glances at her phone. "Look at my skin. I can't even afford my products anymore. This is bad." She throws me a look, eyes wide. "Do it for me, okay?"

"Fine," I mutter. "I'll do my best."

Anne grins, brushing a kiss on my cheek before walking out of the room.

Eric watches her go, then turns to me, shaking his head. "When's she leaving?"

I sigh. "By the time I get that promotion, we're out of here."

Eric chuckles. "How do you handle her?"

"She's a redhead," I reply dryly. "What do you think?"

Eric grabs his car keys, heading toward the door. "Let's go. Too bad I can't walk you in today. It's my day off. I'll drop you off, and when you're done, call me. I'll get you a taxi."

"Thanks."

Thirty minutes later,

we pull up outside HanTech New York. The sleek glass building gleams under the city's morning sun, the very definition of wealth and precision.

Eric wishes me luck and drives off, leaving me standing in front of the imposing entrance. I take a deep breath and walk inside, eyes scanning the massive lobby. Every person here looks like they stepped out of a fashion magazine, all polished and sharp.

I glance around. Wait. Eric mentioned they were also hiring bodyguards. Maybe these guys aren't all applicants.

I clutch the map Eric gave me, looking for the IT Support interview section. It takes a while, but eventually, I find it on the third floor.

When I arrive, my stomach sinks. Over five hundred people are already waiting.

I double-check the sign. Yep. Five hundred.

I take a seat, heart pounding, my legs bouncing anxiously. My breath starts to shallow, and sweat beads on my forehead. Every little noise around me feels like a wave crashing over my nerves.

I spot the coffee machine across the room and decide it's time for something to calm my nerves.

I stand and grab a cup, pouring the coffee carefully. The warmth feels good. I take a sip, and the caffeine rushes through me, clearing my foggy mind.

I take another sip, but—shit—some spills onto my hand, scalding hot. I jerk back, and my whole cup tips, spilling coffee all over my white shirt.

"Great. Just great," I mutter.

I grab a napkin, but all I do is smear the stain across my chest. Perfect. Now I look like I tried to bathe in coffee.

I glance around, panic creeping in. The restroom? Where?

Just as I'm about to make a break for it, the room falls silent.

People straighten, their voices dropping. The receptionist stiffens, typing faster, more precise.

Then they enter.

Five men in sharp suits, moving like they're in sync. Not a word spoken, but you can feel the control in the air.

And then, behind them, he walks in.

Tall. Imposing. Gorgeous. His tailored suit fits like a second skin, making him look like he stepped out of a fashion magazine. His whiskey-brown eyes scan the room, sharp, calculating, and filled with a cold kind of authority.

I don't even realize I'm staring until his gaze flicks toward me.

Three seconds. That's all it takes.

I freeze.

Disappointment? Curiosity? Or just indifference toward the coffee-stained mess in front of him? I can't tell.

Before I can even blink, he moves past, disappearing into the crowd.

I don't breathe again until the receptionist calls my name.

"Tyler Lockwood, number 667. Your turn."

The words barely register in my foggy mind.

"Tyler Lockwood, number 667. Your turn NOW!"

I swallow hard. How the hell do I walk into this interview looking like this?

"I'm dead. Absolutely dead."