Emily sat with her back straight, legs crossed at the ankle, and hands folded neatly on her lap — every inch of her trying to appear composed while her heart thudded like a trapped bird.
Damian Walker's presence was… overwhelming.
He didn't ask many questions. Just a few — clipped, precise, and direct.
"Have you worked as a personal assistant before?"
"Yes, briefly — in a legal office downtown. I handled scheduling, travel coordination, filing—"
"And confidentiality?" he cut in.
She hesitated only a second. "Yes. I'm very discreet."
He nodded once, expression unreadable.
"How are you with long hours?"
"I've never had the luxury of short ones," she said softly, with the ghost of a smile.
For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward her lips. Then they were back on his screen.
She kept answering. Organized. Adaptable. Quick learner. She gave honest answers, trying to sound capable — not desperate. But the whole time, she felt him watching. Not constantly. Just… intermittently. Like he was trying to study her when she wasn't looking.
So she avoided his eyes, focusing on his desk, the skyline behind him, anything else.
Because looking directly at Damian Walker felt like standing in a storm.
She didn't have much. No degree. No glittering references. She'd never interned with fancy firms or polished her skills in glossy high-rises. And sitting there, in his immaculate office, wearing the only pair of nice black slacks she owned, she was sure of one thing:
He's not going to hire me.
Then, without warning, he closed his laptop with a soft click.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, he looked at her — really looked — and said, in a voice so firm it left no room for argument:
"Be here tomorrow. Eight sharp. Don't be late."
Emily blinked. "Wait… I got the job?"
"You may leave now," he said flatly, already turning back toward a folder on his desk.
She stood quickly, trying not to stumble over the chair. "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much!"
He didn't answer.
But she swore she saw the edge of his mouth twitch — the barest hint of something like amusement.
---
She walked out of that office on air.
The lobby sparkled, the receptionist gave her a polite nod, and the others still waiting didn't even register as she passed.
She got the job.
Not just a job — the job. With Walker & Co. Capitals. With Damian Walker.
She stepped onto the sidewalk and nearly let out a laugh. The nerves from earlier had evaporated, replaced with a buzzing excitement that danced through her veins.
She did it.
---
Back home, after hugging her grandmother tightly and serving up a small victory dinner of reheated soup and toast, she finally collapsed on her bed.
Her phone buzzed with a message.
Chloe: "Still alive? Update me or I'm walking over in a face mask and slippers."
Emily grinned and hit call.
"Tell me everything," Chloe said, answering on the first ring.
Emily launched into the full story — the room, the interview, him.
"Wait… Damian Walker himself interviewed you?" Chloe shrieked.
"Yes! I thought it was going to be an HR person or an assistant manager or something, but nope — it was him. Right there. Sitting behind the desk, looking like he eats stress for breakfast."
"Did he say anything weird? Look at you funny?"
"I don't know," Emily admitted, lying back on her bed. "There was this one moment — or a few, actually — where it felt like he was... watching me. Not just interviewing me, but seeing me. I can't explain it."
Chloe hummed. "Rich men don't usually do interviews unless they want something specific. You probably impressed him. Or he's got a weird sixth sense for talent."
"Or desperation," Emily added dryly.
"Girl, who cares? You got the job. And now we are celebrating."
"I can't afford to celebrate."
"You can't afford not to. We're not hitting champagne bars. We're going shopping — you need more than one interview outfit if you're going to survive in that office. Trust me."
---
Later that evening, they met at a budget-friendly boutique Chloe swore by.
Emily tried on two pencil skirts, three blouses, and a sleek blazer that made her feel like a woman who knew what she was doing — even if she didn't.
They laughed as Chloe made her try on heels that were borderline weapons and discussed serious matters like whether "power black" or "soft gray" was more intimidating.
They left with two shopping bags and shared cheap takeout under a streetlamp.
"Tomorrow is your first day as a capital-C Career Woman," Chloe said, handing her a spring roll. "I'm proud of you."
Emily smiled, the city lights reflected in her eyes. "For the first time in a long time, I think… I might be proud of me too."