The Callback

Celeste stood frozen in front of the tiny, cracked screen of her secondhand phone, eyes scanning the email again and again, making sure she wasn't hallucinating.

"Miss Moreau, we were impressed by your initial assessment. You are invited for the next round of interviews at Blackridge Global on Monday at 11 a.m. sharp."

Her heartbeat kicked up like thunder in her chest. She read it again. And again. It was Thursday. She had barely returned from her first visit to that place. She hadn't expected a response this fast—hell, she hadn't expected a callback at all.

A tight, twisting knot formed in her stomach.

"Isn't it… too soon?" she mumbled to herself, voice barely above a whisper. "They don't usually move this fast."

But there it was. A clean, professional message. Signed by the Executive Assistant to the CEO.

Celeste drew in a sharp breath and took two steps back into her studio apartment. It still smelled faintly like the shampoo Maya had used when she showered here the day before. Maya was out at work now, but her encouraging words still lingered.

You deserve this. Act like you already own it.

Her hand trembled just a bit as she placed the phone down on her cluttered table. She'd stayed up late updating her portfolio, editing her resume, rehearsing possible questions. But this second-round callback? This was a different league.

This was war.

She went to her closet — the top shelf, where Maya had helped her neatly hang the few new formal outfits they'd picked. She ran her fingers over a power suit. Jet black. Tailored. The kind of outfit that made you feel like you could crush the world with one step.

Celeste's lips twitched. She pulled it out.

The next morning, she arrived at Blackridge Global five minutes early, standing tall in four-inch heels and the kind of lipstick that screamed lethal elegance. Her hair was swept back into a clean bun, and the suit clung to her frame like it had been made just for her.

Her heart pounded like a drum, but she didn't let it show.

The woman at the reception desk looked up. "Celeste Moreau?"

"Yes."

"Mr. Leclair will see you in twenty minutes. Please wait here."

Mr. Leclair. She nodded, taking a seat across from a giant glass wall that gave a panoramic view of the city. So this was it — the upper floor. No cubicles here. Just silence, white marble, and an atmosphere so crisp it could slice skin.

She crossed her legs and sat straight, pretending she belonged. Pretending? No, not pretending. She did belong here.

She had clawed her way up. She had sacrificed everything — comfort, sleep, meals, even her old job — all in pursuit of knowledge, of power. This wasn't luck. This was earned.

A tall man in a navy suit walked past her and paused. She didn't look up at him, but she felt his eyes linger.

"Interesting," he murmured.

She didn't turn her head. That comment wasn't meant for her ears. But something in the air shifted. Almost like an unseen hand brushing against her.

The receptionist's voice cut in. "Mr. Leclair will see you now. Conference Room D."

Celeste stood. Walked.

She didn't know who Mr. Leclair was, hadn't looked up the CEO's face—she couldn't risk spiraling with comparisons and pressure. She wanted this to be about her. Not intimidation. Not wealth. Just worth.

She walked into the room with poise, only to pause when she found it wasn't a panel of HR faces or a department head like she'd expected.

Just one man.

The same man who had walked by and called her interesting.

He was seated at the far end of the sleek black table, a file open before him, expression unreadable.

"Miss Moreau," he greeted, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

Celeste nodded once and sat, meeting his eyes. Calm. Confident.

She wouldn't break first.

He closed the file slowly. "You're very young for someone with this level of practical knowledge. And… quite opinionated."

She tilted her head slightly. "Do you consider that a flaw, Mr. Leclair?"

His lips curved, not quite into a smile. "Not necessarily. It's rare to find someone who speaks up like you did yesterday. Defending both the accused and the accused-from — not many have the nerve."

Her heart skipped. He'd heard that?

"I spoke because it was wrong," she said simply. "I've been on the receiving end of gossip. I know how damaging it can be."

"I know."

Those two words held weight, and yet no explanation followed.

He flipped the file closed and leaned forward. "You were the top graduate of your batch. You've taken over six professional courses outside university. You were part of a high-level freelance project with seasoned analysts. Your previous employer listed you as irreplaceable — yet you left?"

"I wasn't growing there," she replied. "I wanted more."

He studied her face. "Do you still?"

Celeste didn't hesitate. "Yes."

"Good," he said, then stood. "You'll hear from us soon."

That was it? She was dismissed? She stood as well, nodded, turned, and walked out with every inch of practiced grace she could summon.

But her thoughts were a storm.

She didn't even realize she was holding her breath until she stepped into the elevator and exhaled sharply.

She'd faced the CEO of the top firm in the city. Alone. And hadn't crumbled.

Not once.

Back on the ground floor, the sunlight hit her face as she exited the building. She didn't look back.

But Damien Leclair stood behind one of the tinted windows, watching.

"She didn't even flinch," he said to himself. "She walked in like she owned the room."

The assistant behind him chuckled. "You're intrigued."

He didn't respond. Just kept watching until she disappeared into the crowd.

Because something told him — this wasn't the last time he'd see her.

And he wasn't sure who would survive the next time they met.

The phone rang at precisely 9:07 AM, jolting Celeste out of her thoughts. She had been nursing a mug of lukewarm coffee, her mind still foggy from a restless night. The number on the screen wasn't saved, but her gut twisted in a familiar, almost instinctive tension.

"Hello?" she answered, voice still slightly hoarse.

"Miss Celeste Moreau?"

"Yes?"

"This is Human Resources from Blackridge Global. Mr. Leclair would like to have a second meeting with you tomorrow morning at 10. Please be on time."

Her heart skipped.

"Of course. I'll be there," she replied evenly, somehow managing not to sound as breathless as she felt.

The call ended. Her fingers gripped the phone tighter.

This fast? That was the only thought echoing in her head. But she didn't have the luxury to dwell. She had asked for a chance—and now, it had arrived.

The morning of the callback interview, Celeste didn't dress to impress. She dressed like she owned the entire damn floor. The slate-gray pantsuit Maya had helped her pick out last weekend hugged her figure in clean, sharp lines. Her hair, freshly trimmed and styled, fell in a silky sweep just past her shoulders. Her heels clacked with purpose as she stepped into the glass monolith that was Blackridge Global.

The receptionist smiled this time, more welcoming. "Miss Moreau, right? HR said you'd be coming."

Celeste nodded, calm and collected. Inside, her nerves were a riot.

She was directed to wait near the executive lobby on the top floor. She sat down, spine straight, legs crossed at the ankle, her expression unreadable. If this was a game, she'd play to win.

About twenty minutes later, a woman stepped out of one of the conference rooms. Not just any woman—her posture, the confident sway of her hips, the way her tailored navy sheath dress sat perfectly on her figure—it screamed power.

Celeste found herself staring.

The woman's picture was on one of the digital boards inside the building. "Alina Bellerose, Director of Strategic Mergers." She looked… perfect. The kind of woman who would have the world bending at her will.

Then the name clicked.

Elaine. The same name she had overheard being torn to shreds by whispering employees a few days ago.

"She slept her way to the top."

"She and the boss? Obviously. Look at her."

"She's a snake in heels."

The same venom Celeste had tasted in her own life. When her classmates said she must've had an affair with her professor to get top scores. When success came, they couldn't believe it was earned. It had to be traded for. Because girls like her—quiet, poor, no connections—weren't supposed to win.

As she stared at Elaine, Celeste felt a flicker of something strange. Not envy. Not intimidation. But a recognition of battle scars hidden beneath that polished exterior. And maybe, a fire to be just as unshakable.

She stood, fixing her suit.

Just then, Damien Leclair and his secretary—lean, crisp, sharp-eyed—stepped out of an adjacent room. Damien's gaze scanned the corridor briefly.

Before he could take a step, a sudden flurry of movement caught his attention.

A janitorial worker—one of the maintenance staff—was standing a little too close to Celeste. His hand, subtle but unmistakable, brushed across her back and hovered near her hip.

Celeste froze for only a heartbeat. And then the sound cracked through the corridor like a whip.

SMACK!

Her palm collided hard with the man's face, sending his cap flying off his head.

"Bastard," she muttered under her breath, sharp enough for anyone nearby to catch.

The man stumbled back, eyes wide, hand flying to his cheek.

Security rushed over instantly, alerted by the noise. But Celeste didn't stick around. She adjusted her blazer, straightened her spine, and walked away—heels clicking like gunfire on marble.

Damien stood frozen in place. His secretary blinked.

"Did she just—?"

"Yes," Damien said slowly, a strange look on his face. "She did."

He watched her back as she disappeared into the elevator. Calm. Commanding. Controlled.

He hadn't even seen her face properly. But he'd heard her voice. Felt the stillness in the air after that slap. The unapologetic way she claimed space.

That woman wasn't just a candidate.

She was a storm.