Elena's POV
The skyscraper loomed above her like a fucking monster. Glass and steel, sharp edges glinting in the sunlight, so fucking perfect it made her sick. Blackwood Enterprises. The name alone was enough to send a shiver down her spine. It was one of those companies you only heard about on the news—the kind that dealt in billions, that chewed up small businesses and spat them out for fun. And she was about to step right into its fucking belly.
"Don't freak out," she muttered under her breath, tugging at the hem of her skirt. "Just… breathe."
But her chest felt tight, and each step up the marble staircase made her legs feel like lead. The building seemed to dare her to walk in, to step out of the shadows she'd been hiding in her whole life and show the world that she could fucking belong. Even if she didn't believe it herself.
She forced her shoulders back, chin lifted high, and pushed through the revolving glass doors. The lobby was immaculate. Cold. The kind of place where every inch was designed to make people feel small. A massive crystal chandelier hung above her head, its light reflecting off polished floors so pristine she could see her own reflection in them.
And she looked like a fucking fraud.
The blouse she'd bought clung awkwardly, the skirt too tight around her hips. The low heels pinched, and she could already feel a blister forming. But that wasn't what made her stomach twist. It was the stares. The way the perfectly groomed receptionist raised an eyebrow as she walked in, her lips curling into a smile that was all teeth and no warmth.
"Good morning. May I help you?" The woman's voice was honeyed, dripping with fake politeness.
"I—I'm here for the interview," Elena managed, her throat tight. Fuck. Fuck. She sounded like a goddamn child. "Elena Winters."
The receptionist's eyes flicked over her, head to toe, judgment in every fucking inch of that stare. She clicked something on her computer, then nodded curtly. "Third floor. Conference Room B. They'll call you in when they're ready."
"Thanks," Elena muttered, already moving toward the elevators. She could feel eyes following her, burning into her back, and it took everything in her not to turn around and flip them the fuck off. Ignore it, she told herself fiercely. Just get through this.
The elevator ride was a blur. Too bright, too fast. She was sure she looked out of place, standing beside men and women in thousand-dollar suits, each one more polished and perfect than the last. She caught a few looks—some curious, some dismissive—but no one spoke. They didn't have to. They didn't fucking need to.
The doors slid open, and she stepped out onto the third floor. The hallway stretched out before her, lined with thick carpets and expensive artwork. It felt like walking into a museum—one she didn't fucking belong in. But she forced herself forward, head up, heels clicking loudly in the silence.
Conference Room B.
She found it easily enough. The door was heavy, solid wood, and her hand trembled as she reached for the handle. Don't fuck this up, she chanted silently. Don't fuck this up.
She pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was empty, except for a long table and a few chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city, the view breathtaking and terrifying all at once. She stood there, alone, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst out of her fucking chest.
And then, the door opened behind her.
"Elena Winters?" The voice was smooth, low. Male. She turned sharply, nearly stumbling in her stupid fucking heels. A man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than everything she'd ever owned combined. His hair was dark, slicked back, and his eyes… God, his eyes were cold. Sharp. Like he could cut through steel just by looking at it.
"Yes," she breathed, trying to remember how to fucking breathe. "That's me."
He nodded, not smiling, not offering a hand. "Follow me."
This is it, she thought wildly as she trailed behind him down another hallway. This is really fucking it.
The room he led her into was even more intimidating—massive, with walls lined in dark wood and a long table at the center. There were three people already seated, all of them watching her with the same cold calculation. Like she was a bug under a microscope. Like they were just waiting for her to make one wrong fucking move so they could squash her.
"Take a seat," the man said, gesturing to a chair at the end of the table.
She sat, legs trembling, her back stiff as a board. They didn't speak for a long moment, just stared at her in that awful, silent way that made her want to scream. She felt exposed, naked, like every fear, every fucking insecurity she'd ever had was laid bare in front of them.
Then, finally, the man in the middle—a woman with short, silver hair and a smile that looked more like a snarl—leaned forward.
"Miss Winters," she said slowly. "Why do you think you deserve to work for Blackwood Enterprises?"
The question caught her off guard. She opened her mouth, closed it, then swallowed hard. Fuck. Fuck. What do I say?
"Because…" she began, voice tight. "Because I won't give up. I won't break."
One of the other men arched a brow. "Is that so?"
Yes." She met his gaze, forcing herself to hold it even though every instinct screamed at her to look away. "I know I don't… look like much. I know I don't have the experience you're probably looking for. But I can learn. I can adapt. I can—" Don't fucking cry. Don't you dare fucking cry. "I can handle it. Whatever you throw at me, I'll handle it."
The woman's smile widened, and Elena's stomach dropped. "We'll see about that."