~~PEYTON~~
I stare at my reflection with a nervous flutter in my stomach.
“Well, this is it,” I mumble, adjusting the knot of my silk blouse.
I still can’t quite believe how my life has turned around.
Selling that Lambo felt like a punch to the gut, but the money—enough to make me choke just thinking about it—saved my dad.
And Axel, bless his heart, made sure I could make it up to myself with a new job, even if my new ride makes me chuckle every time I look at it.
It’s a far cry from a Lambo, but it gets the job done.
Now, I’m in a full-blown corporate suit.
Suits!
I, who practically lives in jeans and T-shirts.
But if I want back into the corporate world, especially as a personal assistant for a casino company, I know I have to look the part.
I give my tie one last tug, making sure it’s perfectly straight.
Axel’s a total lifesaver, I think, shaking my head.
Who would’ve thought some mischievous brother-in-law who only thinks about sex could come through so spectacularly?
He apparently pulled some serious strings to get me this interview, and now it’s all up to me to impress the HR manager.
But hey, he says the pay is good, and the compensation package sounds robust.
I could definitely get used to that.
One final check in the mirror.
I twirl, pose, and let out a small, “Damn, I look good.”
My hair, which I had to cut short again after Odin’s accident weeks ago, is now pulled into a sleek bun, dyed back to its original black.
Professional, poised, and ready.
I take one last deep breath, the scent of my new suit still a bit unfamiliar, and head out.
The casino company’s building is even more imposing in person.
All glass and steel, towering over everything else.
I walk through the revolving doors, my heels clicking on the marble floor.
The lobby is surprisingly quiet, not the bustling scene I’d imagined for a major casino operation.
I spot the reception desk and approach, stating my name and appointment.
The receptionist, a woman with a polite smile, directs me to a large waiting room.
I expected a whole line of candidates, a room buzzing with nervous energy, but it’s… empty.
Just me.
Is this a custom interview?
Just for me?
A wave of panic starts to wash over me.
Axel said he recommended me, but this feels intensely personal.
The AC hums, blowing cold air that makes my bare arms prickle, and my feet suddenly feel icy.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to calm my racing heart.
After what feels like an eternity, but is probably only five minutes, a woman with kind eyes and a professional blazer steps in.
“Peyton Thorn?” she asks, and I nod, standing quickly.
“Come with me.”
She leads me down a short hallway and opens a door.
I step inside, scanning the room, counting from one to ten in my head.
I should have done a ten-minute meditation before I got here.
God, my interview as a clerk wasn’t this intense!
I hadn’t even begun, and my body’s already giving me the red light.
I see three people sitting at a long, polished table, waiting to decide my fate.
First, there’s a man in his late forties, neatly dressed, with a smile that’s polite but doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He looks like the HR manager I was expecting.
But then, my gaze shifts to the person in the middle.
My breath catches.
The man I see makes my heart stop.
Raphael.
And right on his table, I see a nameplate with “CEO” boldly written on it.
“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath, but it comes out as barely a whisper.
I just stand there like a coward, staring at Raphael, eyeball to eyeball.
He doesn’t look away, doesn’t even show a bit of recognition on that face.
Just stares blankly, like this is the first time he’s ever met a human being, let alone me.
“Mrs. Thorne,” the woman who brought me in says, her voice calm.
“Please have a seat.”
I manage to peel my eyes away from Raphael, my legs feeling like jelly, and carefully make my way to the chair.
I try not to sit with half of my ass, aiming for some semblance of grace, and manage a weak smile. The source of this chapter is g.com.
But I know my nervousness is showing.
And worst, it’s because of the hot devil sitting opposite me.
No peek at his chest this time, just a tie tight enough to choke him and a suit as smooth as black ice.
Phew.
The interview starts.
The woman, who introduces herself as Ms. Evans, the HR Director, does most of the talking at first.
“Mrs. Thorne, thank you for coming in today. Can you start by telling us a little bit about yourself and why you’re interested in this personal assistant position?”
I launch into my practiced answer, trying to sound confident, but my voice wavers slightly.
I talk about my past experience, my organizational skills, and my adaptability.
Raphael sits there, silent, watching me, never breaking eye contact for long.
Damn, he’s even more serious at work, and it’s unnerving.
The HR manager, Mr. Davies, jumps in with more practical questions.
“How do you handle demanding schedules? Can you give us an example of a time you had to prioritize multiple urgent tasks?”
I talk about my previous roles, making sure to highlight my ability to multitask under pressure, all the while trying to ignore the intense gaze from the middle.
Raphael finally speaks, his voice low, making me jump.
“What do you consider your biggest weakness, and how do you address it?” His question isn’t sharp, but the directness of it, coupled with his presence, makes me stumble over my words for a second.
I give the standard, “I’m a perfectionist” answer, trying to twist it into a positive.
He just nods, no change in his expression.
The interview goes on for what feels like an hour.
They ask about my computer skills, my ability to maintain confidentiality, and even my availability for travel.
Glad, if I get to travel a lot, I answer everything, trying to maintain eye contact with Ms. Evans and Mr. Davies, only glancing at Raphael when absolutely necessary.
It’s a full-on interrogation, much more intense than I ever anticipated for a personal assistant role.
Jesus Christ.
Finally, Ms. Evans leans forward.
“Thank you for your time today, Mrs. Thorne. We’ve certainly learned a lot about your qualifications.” She glances at Raphael, who gives a subtle, almost imperceptible nod.
“We’ll be in touch.”
Mr. Davies adds, “We’ll be making a decision by the end of the week.”
They don’t say much else.
No “we’ll call you if you’re successful,” just “we’ll be in touch” and “we’ll be making a decision.” It feels less like a definite “yes” or “no” and more like they’re still weighing their options, contemplating whether I fit, especially with Raphael sitting there, unreadable as ever.
I stand up, shake their hands, and walk out of the room, my legs still a little wobbly until…
“Tell me, Mrs. Thorne,” Raphael’s voice cuts through.
I freeze, my hand still halfway to the doorknob.
Both Ms. Evans and Mr. Davies shift uncomfortably, clearly caught off guard.
“Given your recent… break from this level of corporate demand, are you truly prepared for the kind of absolute dedication my personal assistant requires? Because my P.A. lives and breathes this company. You don’t seem like a person who can give that much.”