The Interview

Jasmine's POV

I studied myself in the mirror by the hallway entrance for the third time that morning. Not because I'm a perfectionist, but because things had to go right today. Perfect, even.

Hair? Straight, silky, and smells like a summer breeze in Monaco.

Lips? Confident red, not too bold, not too safe.

Outfit? Burgundy fitted pantsuit with a white silk blouse underneath. Giving old money.

Eyes? Bright enough to fake a full eight hours of sleep.

I stepped back slightly, adjusting my blazer.

"You look like a woman about to steal someone's job," a voice said behind me.

I turned to see Tia, my best friend and roommate, leaning against the kitchen counter in her oversized NASA hoodie, a bowl of cereal in one hand, her phone in the other.

"Steal? I'm applying for it fair and square," I replied, smoothing a crease on my pants.

"Yeah, yeah. But still, you're going to kill it. What time's your interview again?"

"Ten thirty," I said, glancing at the clock. "I'm heading out early. Just need to grab coffee and breathe."

"Good call. You get weird when you're nervous."

I gave her a dry look. "Thanks for the support."

She grinned around a spoonful of cereal. "Seriously though, I believe in you. You're a beast at what you do. If they don't hire you, it's their loss."

Her words sank into me like a warm sip of tea. Tia had always been my grounding force—funny, sarcastic, brutally honest, and deeply loyal. We'd been friends since sophomore year of college, and living together had been a rollercoaster of pizza-fueled late nights and mutual life pep talks.

But today wasn't just about a job. It was about finally leaving behind the wreckage of the last one.

I'd poured everything I had into Clove Media. I worked late nights, brought in clients, redesigned brand strategies from the ground up. My Luna & Lava campaign went viral, winning industry awards and tripling their engagement in under five months. And yet...

They promoted Eric. The man who couldn't run a presentation without sweating through his collar. The man who once asked me how to copy-paste.

Marianne, our director, had looked me in the eye and said, "It just wasn't the right time."

It wasn't about time. It was about control. And I was tired of shrinking to make other people feel comfortable.

This job meant I could finally afford my own space, move out from the one-bedroom Tia and I were squeezing into, and maybe start saving for grad school. It meant I could stop watching Chris chase his ambitions while mine sat in a corner, ignored and underpaid.

"And hey," Tia added, nudging her head toward the window, "don't forget your umbrella. Weather app says scattered drama clouds."

"Scattered drama, huh? Sounds about right."

I grabbed my bag, then paused. "You think he'll call today?"

"Chris?" Tia shrugged. "Do you want him to?"

I hesitated. "I don't know. He said he was working late last night, but… I don't know, something felt off."

"Mmhm," she hummed knowingly. "That sixth sense of yours doesn't lie. Maybe it's time you stop giving him so many passes."

"Let's not go there today. One crisis at a time."

"Fair. Go kill that interview, Jazz. Bring the charm, bring the strategy, bring the 'hire me or regret it' energy."

I grinned. "Thanks, T. I'll text you after."

I left the apartment and made a quick stop at Brew & Flow, the coffee shop on the corner. The bell above the door jingled softly as I walked in, and James was already behind the counter, wiping it down and dancing slightly to the slow R&B playing in the background.

James was hard to miss—chubby, always in a slightly stained apron, and full of sass and stories. He was a walking vibe.

"Well, well, if it isn't the Queen of Control herself," he said, spotting me. "Don't tell me it's Interview Day."

"It is," I said, exhaling deeply. "Slate & Forge. Round three."

"Whew, they sound like they charge five hundred dollars just to look at their offices."

"Probably. Got my usual?"

"Already making it, darling. Caramel macchiato, extra confidence, no doubts."

I laughed and leaned on the counter, grateful for the light moment. James was a welcome distraction.

"So... you and Mr. Analyst still playing house?" he asked casually.

"Chris? Yeah. Kind of. Why?"

James hesitated. "Saw him at Reggie's thing on Friday. Looked like a full-blown party."

My brows knit. "Chris said he was working late that night."

"Maybe he came after," James offered, handing me my drink. "But he was definitely there. Talking to some girl in orange. Looked... comfortable."

I stared at the cup. "Right. Got it."

"Hey," James said gently. "Don't let a maybe-boyfriend ruin your definitely-big day."

"Thanks. I'll process the crisis after I nail this interview."

"That's the spirit."

As I stepped out of the coffee shop, my phone rang. Mom.

"Hey, Mom."

"Jazz! Are you wearing the burgundy suit?"

"Yes, Mom."

"And your confident red lipstick?"

"Check."

"Then you've already won. Just be yourself. And speak with that power voice. The one you used when you were five and told the babysitter her snacks were 'low budget.'"

I laughed. "That woman deserved it."

"Call me after. I'm lighting a candle and sending all the good vibes."

"Thanks, Mom. Love you."

I ended the call, took one more sip of coffee, and reminded myself that no matter what, this day was mine to own.

I pulled into the lot outside Slate & Forge, found a perfect spot up front, and parked. A final mirror check confirmed the look was still on point.

Then it happened.

A sharp honk.

A gust of wind.

And a splash of mud that missed me by an inch.

"What the—?" I shrieked, jumping back.

A sleek black Bentley ghosted past me and slid into the executive lot like it owned the place. I stood frozen, mouth agape.

"Are you kidding me?! You reckless lunatic! Learn to drive!"

No apology. No glance. Just the driver stepping out and opening the door for his boss—a man I barely saw. Tall, suited, too far to make out details.

"People really think money makes them bulletproof," I muttered. "Ugh."

I looked down. Miraculously, not a drop of mud on me. Praise be.

As I adjusted my blazer and reapplied lip gloss using the building's glass door as a mirror, I whispered, "Today is still your day, Jazz. Let no rich man ruin it."

The lobby of Slate & Forge was modern intimidation: chrome, glass, and silence that made your heels sound like betrayal.

"Miss Ford?" the receptionist asked.

I nodded. "Yes. I'm here for the marketing director interview."

She gestured toward a room with frosted glass doors. "You're with Mrs. Anders. Good luck."

I walked in, heart steady, smile loaded.

Mrs. Claire Anders sat at a sleek round table—all pearls and posture. Beside her, a man in rolled-up sleeves and glasses typed quickly on a tablet.

"Miss Ford," Claire greeted me, standing with a firm handshake. "Right on time."

"Thank you for having me."

I sat down, palms flat on the table.

"Let's start with your experience," Claire said. "You led two major brand turnarounds in the past three years, yes?"

"Correct. At Clove Media, I took a failing skincare line and increased digital reach by 320% in four months. And last year, I rebranded a luxury hotel chain's entire online identity—from outdated to viral."

The man beside her perked up. "You did the Luna & Lava campaign?"

I grinned. "The flaming bathtub? Guilty."

He laughed. Claire didn't.

"Impressive," she said, tone flat. "If you were assigned a campaign you fundamentally disagreed with, what would you do?"

"I'd ask why the approach was chosen, challenge it with data, and if we still disagreed, I'd deliver their way first—then pitch mine with results to back it up."

He nodded in approval. Claire... slightly less so.

"And why Slate & Forge?"

"Because you take brands people forget and make them unforgettable. That's what I do, too. I want to grow here, learn, and eventually lead."

They exchanged a glance. Claire spoke.

"You'll hear from us in forty-eight hours."

"Thank you."

I stood, shook hands, and turned toward the door.

That's when it opened.

And in walked him.

Broad shoulders. Impeccable navy suit. Ice-blue eyes.

The Bentley driver. The man I just screamed at in the lot.

He paused. Looked at me.

I froze. He blinked. Then, his gaze dropped to my shoes. One brow lifted just a twitch.

"Apologies, Claire," he said coolly. "Had a parking incident."

I swallowed.

No. Freaking. Way.

He looked very familiar. But before I could process it, I slipped out the door.

My heart was pounding.

There was no way that jerk was important. No way he was someone I'd be working under.

Right?