Claire had always been good at interviews.
Composed. Articulate. Calm under pressure.
That was before her world crumbled.
Now, sitting in a gray lobby with water still dripping from her sleeves, she felt like an imposter in her own skin. Her blouse clung uncomfortably to her back, and her hair — once the kind her mother proudly brushed each morning — curled in wild strands around her face.
She glanced around. Polished shoes, leather folders, confident faces. She was painfully, glaringly out of place, a rain-soaked ghost in a world of crisp, dry ambition.
The receptionist, a woman with a perfectly coiffed blonde bob and an air of detached efficiency, called her name. "Claire Matthews." Her voice was flat, devoid of inflection.
Claire rose, a quiet dignity in her posture despite the tremor in her hands. She adjusted her damp sweater, a futile attempt to appear more presentable, and walked into a small, windowless office. The air inside was stuffy, smelling faintly of old paper and desperation. A young woman, her face framed by stern, wire-rimmed glasses, sat behind a cluttered desk, barely looking up from her clipboard.
"Claire Matthews. You're here for the admin temp position?"
Claire nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
"Education?"
"Bachelor's in Literature from Hillridge University. Graduated top of my class."
"Experience?" The pen tapped impatiently against the clipboard.
"I interned at a publishing house during college," Claire began, her voice gaining a fragile confidence as she spoke of a time before the crash. "Then... I managed administrative duties at my family's business."
There was a subtle pause. A flick of the pen, a faint scratch against paper. The woman finally glanced up, her stern eyes, magnified by the glasses, fixing on Claire's face.
"Matthews Holdings?" The question was sharp, direct, cutting through the sterile air.
Claire's stomach tightened into a cold, hard knot. The name, once a source of pride, now felt like a brand of shame. "Yes. It was... my father's company." She kept her voice even, betraying nothing.
"I see. And what happened after his passing?"
The question wasn't cruel. Just factual. But it still stung.
"The company was transferred to another family member. I'm currently looking to restart."
There was another long silence. The woman scribbled something and closed the file.
"We'll let you know if you're shortlisted. Thank you for coming."
No smile. No handshake. No polite pleasantries. Just the cold, impersonal sound of a door clicking shut behind her, sealing her fate for this particular opportunity.
Back in the street, the rain had stopped but the sky was still heavy with clouds. Claire walked aimlessly, umbrella unopened, unsure of where to go. Her shoes were soaked. Her stomach rumbled from the protein bar she'd had that morning.
She stopped at a bench near the metro station. The city roared around her — taxis honking, people laughing into their phones, children whining. Her world had paused, but everyone else's had moved on.
Claire gripped her duffel bag tightly, her knuckles white. She couldn't go home. There was no home anymore. Just Room 4C in a women's hostel, a small, impersonal box, and a stranger who might or might not snore at night. The thought of returning to that cramped space, to the stark reality of her new existence, felt like another defeat.
Her phone buzzed. Again. A relentless, insistent vibration.
A message from her uncle. She didn't open it. Another from the agency — "Thank you for attending. We'll keep your resume on file."
Which meant no.
Another door, gently, impersonally, closed in her face.
By afternoon, she had wandered into Midtown's business sector, hoping to leave a few resumes in person. It wasn't the most dignified approach, but she had nothing to lose.
She walked into a glass building with mirrored panels — a financial consulting firm, according to the name etched outside. The lobby was modern, flooded with light and the smell of roasted coffee. Claire clutched her folder and walked to the front desk.
"Hi. I'm here to submit my resume," she began, her voice a little too soft, a little too uncertain. "I was told your HR might be accepting temp roles?"
The woman at the desk gave her a polite smile.
"You just missed the walk-ins, but I can take your file."
Claire exhaled, a small, defeated sigh. She handed over the folder, the thin paper feeling heavy in her hand.
As she turned to leave, the private elevator to her left opened with a soft, almost imperceptible chime. A group of impeccably dressed executives emerged, their voices a low murmur of confident conversation.
She didn't glance. Not until she heard the voice.
"Leo, I told you not to schedule anything until after the acquisition closes. Why is legal still chasing numbers on the Thorne deal?"
Familiar.
Sharp. Rigid. Unmistakable.
She turned instinctively, her breath catching in her throat.
It was him.
The man from the convenience store. Same imposing build. Same resonant voice. But this time, he looked... profoundly different. No damp jacket or tired, almost disheveled expression. Now he wore a crisp, impeccably tailored navy suit, the fabric perfectly pressed, and carried an undeniable presence that seemed to make people instinctively move out of his way, a silent acknowledgment of his power. He radiated an aura of formidable authority, a stark contrast to the casual stranger she'd encountered.
She froze, rooted to the spot.
He hadn't noticed her. He was deep in conversation with a younger man in rolled sleeves, who held a tablet.
"I'll call Marcus myself. This delay is wasting our time, Leo." His voice was laced with a chilling impatience.
"You? Call someone? I'll record it as evidence," the assistant — Leo, she guessed — teased, a surprising note of familiarity in his tone.
A chuckle. Brief, rare, almost sarcastic, but undeniably a chuckle. It was a low, rough sound, a fleeting glimpse of something almost human from someone who seemed carved out of steel.
Caire turned quickly, hoping to disappear before he looked her way.
"Who is she?"
"She's new."
Jaxon paused.
"She looks... familiar." His voice was a low murmur, a hint of curiosity in his tone.
Claire walked straight out of the lobby.
Back in the sleek, black car, Jaxon Reed narrowed his eyes, his gaze still fixed on the glass doors of the building.
"Did you see the girl at the front desk, Leo?" he asked, his voice thoughtful, a rare deviation from his usual laser focus on business.
Leo looked over the tablet in his lap. "The one who bolted the second you turned your head? Yeah."
Jaxon didn't answer.
She had looked familiar. But not from the world he moved in — not from parties, fundraisers, or investor circles. Something else. Something quieter.
He couldn't quite place it and he didn't have time to think about it. Numbers were bleeding, and the acquisition paperwork for Thorne Industries was still a mess.