"Miss Rushman… Are you an immigrant from Russia?" I asked the girl sitting opposite me.
"That's right. I moved to the United States when I was ten years old," replied the red-haired beauty. Her impeccable posture, steady hands resting on the table, the faint smile on her lips, and her direct gaze — everything about her radiated training and confidence.
"Do you know Russian well?" I asked.
"Quite well."
"In that case, let's switch to Russian. Do you mind?" I suggested, already speaking her native tongue.
"No, not at all. I'd be pleased to speak in my mother language," she agreed smoothly. Her voice carried a warmth not found in her careful English. After a moment, her eyes flickered with something close to surprise. "And I must say — you speak excellent Russian. There's no accent at all."
"Thank you," I answered.
One must be wondering when I managed to learn such a difficult language. Let me share a secret: I've always known it — from the moment I opened my eyes in this world. They say that a person's native tongue is the language in which they think. And even someone who suffers amnesia might forget all the languages they studied consciously, but they would never forget the one etched into their brain in childhood, in their very blood. My very first thought here was in Russian. But later I switched freely between Russian and English, until it became impossible to say which was truly mine. Perhaps I was Russian once. Or American. Or English. I can't tell. All three cultures feel familiar to me — and perhaps one day I'll remember who I really was in my past life. But right now, that matters very little.
Natasha smiled sweetly and leaned forward ever so slightly, radiating interest and attention. Thick, cold-copper hair spilled onto her shoulders in glossy waves. In that instant, I realized: on bold and independent women, red hair burns with an entirely different fire. Nothing emphasizes a strong-willed nature so perfectly as a fiery crown. Even her unbuttoned blouse wasn't crass — it carried just enough allure to command notice without crossing into vulgarity. Clever. Distracting. Effective.
Did it affect me? Of course it did. But she didn't need to know that.
And so, I pretended not to care, and carried on as though nothing stirred beneath the surface.
The last thing I expected — or desired — was to find Natasha Romanoff, the infamous Black Widow, across the table from me. Not because I feared her interference — but because her presence meant one thing: Nick Fury was suspicious. And if the one-eyed Cyclops himself had dispatched his best agent after me, it raised a question. What did he want to uncover? My allegiances? My secrets? Or perhaps just the kind of coffee I prefer in the morning?
I pushed the thought away. For now, I needed to deal with the smiling assassin seated across from me.
"Mr. Alex, have you lived abroad for some time?" she asked, watching me closely. "Only a few achieve such clear pronunciation with lessons alone."
"Well, I'll give you an answer — though you may not find it entirely reliable," I said after a pause. "You see, I've lost most of my memories. My life before now is a blur. Yet, strangely enough, I have the feeling I've never set foot outside America."
"I see…" she murmured.
"Let's continue then. First, let me clarify: this isn't really an interview in the formal sense. I'm not evaluating your skillset — I trust my assistant's judgment on that matter. And the fact that you impressed her tells me you know your work. What I want from this conversation is something different. I want to see the person beneath the résumé. Because our company, above all else, is built on trust. Mutual trust is the cornerstone of progress for us. Tell me — can we trust you? Will you stand by us when things turn difficult, instead of turning away?"
"I do not tolerate lies or betrayal," she answered firmly — the double agent whose favorite art is betrayal itself. "A person should always support those who helped them in times of need, and took them into their home."
"You know, they also say that the man who condemns lies the loudest is usually the greatest liar of all," I replied.
"You don't trust me, Mr. Reath," Romanoff noted calmly. "But trust takes time, does it not? You can't judge a person by a first impression. The one you ignore today may someday become the only person you'd entrust your secrets to. Nothing is certain. All I ask for is a chance — the chance to prove that I am worthy of your trust."
What an actress... Truly Oscar-worthy.
Though if anyone here deserves the award, I'd still nominate myself. But she, at least, has earned a nomination. And from an audience's point of view — this conversation must look comical. After all, I know exactly who sits before me. But I have no intention of spoiling the show for her. She's trying so hard. It would be unkind not to appreciate the act.
"And you do have a strict selection process," she added quickly, breaking the silence.
"Not strict, no," I said. "Just… special. And your case is very special."
"And how exactly is it special?" she asked evenly, shifting slightly in her chair.
"Well… it's a high-ranking role," I answered, as though that were all, leaving unspoken the shadow called Nick Fury.
"Then tell me," I continued. "Why do you want to work for us?"
"Because I see limitless potential here. In just six months, your company has become a prestigious, fast-growing enterprise. And I am certain that you are on the brink of a major breakthrough," she replied flawlessly, with the crispness of a line rehearsed a hundred times.
A smart girl.
Which brought me to the real question — the one that mattered.
"I know that in the past, you worked for Stark Industries," I said. "One of the largest, most prestigious companies in the world. So why did you leave?"
"I did not—" she stopped, caught completely off guard. Until that moment, she had avoided mentioning Stark in her application. My question exposed that, and she hesitated.
I could see it — the quick flash in her eyes, the wheels turning. She was calculating: how did I know? Should she deny it, or admit it?
For her, there could only be one explanation: Tony Stark. I've spoken to him more than once, and she knew it. To her, it must seem obvious that Stark had simply told me. But now comes the more dangerous puzzle: how much did I know? Did Stark reveal her true allegiance? Did I realize who she really was? Or was I still in comfortable ignorance?
Finally, she decided.
"That's right," she admitted, switching back into English. "I didn't work at Stark Industries for long. And I chose not to mention that experience because there was nothing good to say about it. It's not customary to speak ill of a former employer in a résumé — it's unprofessional and unethical. But since your organization values honesty above all else, forgive me — I'll tell the truth."
"You made the right choice," I said, watching her intently. What exactly had Stark done to her?
"He behaved unprofessionally," she confessed. "He abused his authority and broke every moral standard. He was hypocritical, selfish, sexist — cynical to the core. His disregard for others, his vanity, his wild mood swings… in the end, it was too much. That was when I knew I had to quit."
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Tell me a title for this chapter.
And vote with power stones guys and one more thing, if possible, do read some chapters of the other book and give review on it.