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Chapter 3 - The Interview

The Ward Enterprises building rose from the Manhattan sidewalk like a monolith of black glass and steel, its surface reflecting the afternoon sky in fragments that seemed to shift and move as Dalia craned her neck to see the top. Fifty-seven floors of power and money, and somewhere in that vertical city was the man who might save her from losing everything.

Or destroy her completely.

She'd spent the morning in a frantic rush to make herself presentable, pulling her one good interview suit from the back of her closet and praying the dry cleaning from two years ago would still hold up. The black blazer was slightly too big now, her recent stress having carved away what little softness she'd once carried, but it would have to do. Her reflection in the building's glass facade showed a woman trying desperately to look like she belonged in this world of marble lobbies and seven-figure salaries.

The call to Margaret Chen had been surprisingly brief. A crisp voice had confirmed her availability for a 2 PM interview, provided an address she already knew by heart from seeing it on billboards across the city, and hung up before Dalia could ask any of the thousand questions burning in her mind.

Now, standing in the building's shadow, those questions felt more urgent than ever.

The lobby was a cathedral of wealth, all soaring ceilings and imported marble that probably cost more than most people's houses. Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she approached the reception desk, where a woman with perfect hair and a smile that never quite reached her eyes asked for her identification.

"Dalia Moreno. I have a 2 PM appointment."

The receptionist's fingers flew over her keyboard, manicured nails tapping out a rhythm that sounded like money counting itself. "Fifty-third floor. The elevators are to your right. You'll be met at reception."

The elevator ride felt endless, each passing floor marked by a soft chime that counted down to whatever waited for her at the top. Through the glass walls, she caught glimpses of other floors: teams of people in expensive suits moving with purpose, conference rooms where decisions worth millions were probably being made every minute.

Floor fifty-three was different from what she'd expected. Instead of the open bullpen of cubicles she was used to, this level was all private offices and closed doors, everything designed to whisper rather than shout its importance. The carpet was thick enough to muffle sound, and the artwork on the walls looked like it belonged in a museum.

"Ms. Moreno?" A woman emerged from behind a desk that was probably worth more than Dalia's car. She was perhaps sixty, with silver hair pulled back in a perfect chignon and the kind of understated elegance that could only come from having money for so long that you forgot other people didn't. "I'm Margaret Chen. Thank you for coming in on such short notice."

They walked down a hallway lined with photographs of Ward Enterprises properties around the world. Hotels in Dubai, office complexes in Tokyo, residential towers that pierced city skylines like needles drawing blood from the sky. Each image was a monument to the kind of power that could reshape the world with a signature.

"I have to ask," Dalia said, her voice smaller than she'd intended in the hushed atmosphere, "how did you get my name? I didn't apply for any positions here."

Margaret's smile was polite but revealed nothing. "Mr. Ward has very thorough research methods. He likes to identify talent before it becomes obvious to everyone else."

They stopped outside a set of double doors that looked like they'd been carved from single pieces of dark wood. Margaret knocked once, waited for a response Dalia couldn't hear, then pushed them open.

"Mr. Ward? Ms. Moreno is here."

The office beyond was larger than Dalia's entire apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of Manhattan that probably cost more per square foot than most people made in a year. But it wasn't the space that stole her breath.

It was the man behind the desk.

Cassian Ward was younger than she'd expected from his corporate photos, though no less intimidating. He sat perfectly still as she entered, his dark eyes tracking her movement with the kind of focus that made her feel like a specimen under a microscope. His suit was charcoal gray and fit him like it had been sewn directly onto his body, and when he stood to greet her, she realized he was taller than the photographs suggested.

Everything about him spoke of control. The way he moved with economical precision. The way his desk was completely clear except for a single folder. The way he watched her without blinking, as if missing even a micro-expression might cost him some crucial advantage.

"Ms. Moreno." His voice was deeper than she'd imagined, with just a hint of an accent she couldn't place. "Please, sit."

The chair across from his desk was leather and probably cost more than she made in a month, but it felt less like luxury and more like a trap as she settled into it. Cassian remained standing for a moment longer, studying her with an intensity that made her skin feel too tight.

"You're wondering why you're here," he said finally, moving around his desk with predatory grace. He didn't return to his chair but instead leaned against the edge of his desk, close enough that she could smell his cologne. Something expensive and masculine that made her think of midnight and danger.

"The thought had crossed my mind."

A smile ghosted across his lips, there and gone so quickly she might have imagined it. "You worked at Henderson & Associates for six years. Graphic design, primarily focused on architectural presentations. Your work on the Meridian Tower project caught my attention."

Dalia's blood went cold. The Meridian Tower project. The one that had destroyed her father's company, the lawsuit that had consumed their savings and killed him with stress and shame. She hadn't worked on anything related to that nightmare, hadn't even known Henderson & Associates was involved until the legal papers started flying.

"I think there's been a mistake," she said carefully. "I never worked on Meridian Tower."

"No," Cassian agreed, his eyes never leaving her face. "But your father did. Moreno Construction was the primary contractor until the project went south. Faulty materials, missed deadlines, cost overruns that nearly bankrupted my company before we cut ties."

The world tilted sideways. This man, this stranger who lived in a tower of glass and money, knew about her father's business. Knew about the lawsuit that had destroyed her family. Knew things about her life that she'd never told anyone.

"How do you..." she started, then stopped. There was something in his expression, a satisfaction that made her stomach clench with sudden understanding.

"You want to know how I know so much about you, Dalia." Her name on his lips sounded like a claim, like he was tasting something that belonged to him. "The answer is simple. I make it my business to know about anything that affects my interests."

"And I affect your interests?"

This time the smile stayed longer, but it wasn't reassuring. It was the smile of a predator who'd found something particularly interesting to play with.

"More than you know."

He moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back, looking out at the city spread below him like a kingdom he owned. "Your father was a good man, by all accounts. Honest. Hardworking. The kind of contractor who took pride in his work and treated his employees like family."

Past tense. Her father was dead, and this stranger was talking about him like he'd known him personally.

"He also made some very poor business decisions," Cassian continued, his voice casual as if he were discussing the weather. "Trusting the wrong people. Believing that honesty and hard work were enough to survive in a world built on compromise and calculated risk."

"Is there a point to this?" Dalia's voice was sharper now, anger cutting through her confusion. "Because if you brought me here to insult my father's memory..."

"I brought you here," Cassian said, turning back to face her, "because I have a proposition. A way for you to rebuild what was lost. To take back some of what was stolen from your family."

He returned to his desk, opened the folder that had been waiting there, and slid a single sheet of paper across to her. It was a job description, but unlike any she'd ever seen. The salary line made her eyes widen despite her anger.

"Personal assistant to the CEO," he explained. "The position would require complete discretion, absolute loyalty, and your willingness to be available whenever I need you. Day or night."

The way he said it made heat crawl up her neck. There was something in his tone, in the way his eyes lingered on her face, that suggested the job might involve more than taking meetings and managing his calendar.

"Why me?" she asked.

"Because you need what I can offer, and I need someone who understands what it means to lose everything." He leaned forward, his gaze intense enough to burn. "Someone who knows the value of a second chance."

"And what exactly are you offering?"

"Salvation," he said simply. "A salary that will solve your immediate problems. Benefits that will ensure you never have to worry about money again. And the opportunity to work for someone who appreciates loyalty above all else."

It was everything she needed and nothing she trusted. This man knew too much about her, spoke about her father with too much familiarity, and looked at her like she was something he intended to own rather than employ.

But the eviction notice was still crumpled on her kitchen counter. Her mother was still working herself to death. And the number on that salary line was still more money than she'd ever dreamed of making.

"I need time to think about it," she said.

Cassian's smile was sharp as a blade. "Of course. But don't take too long, Dalia. Opportunities like this don't wait for anyone."

As she stood to leave, he spoke once more, his voice soft but carrying clearly across the vast office.

"Your father would be proud of you for surviving this long on your own. But even the strongest people need help sometimes."

The words followed her all the way down fifty-three floors and out into the unforgiving streets of Manhattan, where the shadows between buildings felt less like shelter and more like the spaces where predators waited for their prey to make a choice between salvation and destruction.

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