Maya's POV
I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears as I stared at Alexander Blackwood, a figure of quiet authority standing in front of me. Everything about him—his tailored suit, his steady gaze, the way he seemed completely unruffled—was intimidating in a way I hadn't expected. I felt like an imposter in my thrift-store blouse and worn-out shoes, barely holding myself together in front of a man who looked as though he owned the world.
"Please, take a seat," he said, his voice low and calm, yet filled with a gravity that made it feel like more of a command than an invitation.
I walked forward, forcing myself to keep my head high and my steps steady as I sank into the chair across from him. My fingers tightened around my portfolio as I tried to take in the room around me—polished marble floors, the faint scent of expensive leather, and walls adorned with original artworks that probably cost more than my apartment's yearly rent. Everything about this place was immaculate, untouchable, like the man sitting across from me.
Mr. Blackwood folded his hands on the desk, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. He was silent for a moment, his eyes studying me, as if he were assessing more than just my resume or my qualifications. I wasn't sure what he was looking for, but it felt like he was waiting for me to prove something before he even spoke.
"Maya Hargrove," he said slowly, as though trying out the sound of my name. "You're here for the curatorial assistant position."
"Yes," I replied, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt. "Thank you for the opportunity."
He gave a faint nod, his expression unreadable. "Tell me, Maya," he continued, "why did you apply for this position? What is it that drew you to the Blackwood Foundation?"
The question sounded simple enough, but his gaze was unnervingly focused, and I felt a flicker of nerves. This was it—my one chance to make an impression, to prove that I was more than just another struggling artist. I took a deep breath, hoping my answer sounded as heartfelt as I meant it.
"I've followed the foundation's work for years," I began. "The way you support emerging artists, bringing attention to pieces that might otherwise go unnoticed—that's something I really admire. I believe in the power of art to connect people, to make them see the world differently. This foundation has done that for so many, and... I'd like to be a part of that."
Mr. Blackwood didn't react, and I couldn't tell if my words had resonated with him at all. His expression remained as guarded as ever, but he leaned back slightly, folding his arms as he continued to observe me.
"You're an artist yourself," he said, glancing down at my portfolio.
"Yes," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I—my work is mostly abstract, playing with light and color. It's a way for me to express things that are hard to put into words. I've exhibited locally, but I'm still... trying to find my place."
I realized I was rambling and clamped my mouth shut, silently cursing myself. But Mr. Blackwood's expression remained neutral, his gaze flicking to my portfolio. He raised an eyebrow, and I knew what he was asking without him having to say it.
"May I?" he asked, gesturing toward the portfolio.
"Of course," I replied, sliding it across the polished desk. My stomach tightened as he opened it, carefully turning each page to look over my work.
As he studied each piece, I tried to keep my breathing steady, resisting the urge to explain every brushstroke, every color choice. My art was deeply personal, a window into my hopes and fears, my longings and disappointments. Letting someone as powerful and reserved as Mr. Blackwood see that part of me felt strangely vulnerable.
He finally closed the portfolio and placed it back on the desk. For a moment, there was silence, and I couldn't tell if he was impressed, disappointed, or indifferent.
"You have potential," he said at last, and while his tone was calm, his words felt like a small victory. "But the position of curatorial assistant requires more than just an eye for art. It involves cataloging, event planning, organization, and working with other artists and patrons. It's a demanding role. Are you prepared for that?"
I nodded quickly. "I am. I've worked hard to support myself while pursuing my art, so I'm used to balancing multiple responsibilities. And I love the idea of learning more about the business side of art—curation, collection management… all of it."
Another brief silence stretched between us, and I hoped I hadn't said too much. Mr. Blackwood's gaze didn't waver, but I thought I saw the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, as though he were faintly amused by my enthusiasm.
"Very well," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I'll have my assistant send you the initial documents and contract details. We'll begin with a probationary period of three months."
I stared at him, barely daring to believe what I was hearing. "So... I got the position?"
His mouth lifted into a ghost of a smile. "It would appear so, Ms. Hargrove."
A wave of relief flooded over me, and I barely resisted the urge to let out a breath of excitement. I'd actually done it. After years of struggling and scraping by, here was my break—a chance to prove myself in the art world, to work with one of the most prestigious foundations in the city.
"Thank you, Mr. Blackwood. I won't let you down."
He gave a slight nod, but his expression remained unreadable. "I'll expect professionalism and dedication. The Blackwood Foundation's standards are high, and you'll need to meet them. This isn't simply an artistic endeavor—it's a commitment. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," I replied firmly, meeting his gaze. I wanted him to see that I was serious, that this wasn't just a job for me. It was a chance to prove to myself that I could make it, that I could bring my dreams into the real world. "I won't disappoint you."
He seemed to study me a moment longer, as if weighing my words. "I'll hold you to that, Ms. Hargrove."
As he rose from his chair, I scrambled to my feet, still clutching my portfolio as he walked around his desk to escort me out. The air in the room felt thicker now, the gravity of what had just happened settling over me. This man had just given me the chance of a lifetime—a way out of the endless cycle of late nights and unrecognized work. And something about the way he looked at me, calm but penetrating, made me wonder if he saw something in me even I hadn't discovered yet.
"Report to Emily tomorrow at nine," he said as he opened the door. "She'll take you through your initial tasks and get you situated."
"Of course," I replied, hoping my voice didn't betray the excitement surging within me. "Thank you again for this opportunity."
He inclined his head in response, and I felt a strange energy radiate off him—confidence, certainty, a presence that seemed to fill the room even as he stood there in silence.
As I walked out of his office and into the gleaming hallway, my heart pounded. Had that really just happened? Had Alexander Blackwood, the most elusive and powerful man in the art world, given *me* a chance?
Emily was waiting for me outside, clipboard in hand. She smiled, looking genuinely pleased. "Congratulations, Maya," she said warmly. "Mr. Blackwood doesn't usually take such a personal interest in our new hires."
I blinked, absorbing her words. "He doesn't?"
"No," she said with a little laugh. "So take it as a compliment. He must see something in you."
Her words echoed in my mind, even as she led me toward the exit, filling me in on what to expect for my first day. I nodded along, trying to focus, but I couldn't shake the thought that had been growing since the moment I'd stepped into his office. Why had Mr. Blackwood hired me? I was one of dozens, maybe hundreds, who had applied. What had made me stand out?
By the time I left the building and stepped onto the busy sidewalk, my mind was spinning with questions. But even my nerves couldn't dampen the thrill that surged through me as I looked up at the massive, gleaming building that now held my future. For the first time in a long time, the path ahead didn't feel like a dead-end. It felt like the beginning of something powerful, something real.
As I walked home, I couldn't help but smile, my thoughts already drifting to tomorrow. This was my chance.