THE INTERVIEW
DOVE'S POV
My legs wouldn't stop shaking. I pressed my palms into my knees, trying to still the tremors, but my body was humming with a nervous energy I couldn't suppress.
The leather beneath me was softer than my mattress back home. It was softer than anything I'd ever touched. I glanced around the living room, and the dizziness rushed back. It wasn't just big; it was cavernous. The ceiling felt miles away, and every surface seemed to catch the light.
"Bastard money," I whispered, the words barely breath.
It was undeniable. Just the other day, Shawn had been ranting while we sat on the curb outside the convenience store.
"There's a wall, Dove," he'd said, nursing a cigarette he couldn't afford. "A huge, invisible wall between us and them. We worry about rent; they worry about which island to buy. They don't breathe the same air."
I hadn't believed him then. I believed him now. The air in here even smelled expensive—like sandalwood and old money.
"Miss?"
I flinched, my heart kicking against my ribs.
The man was back. He was massive—broad-shouldered and dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my entire life's earnings. He had escorted me from the gate, deposited me here, and vanished.
"I asked if you required refreshments," he said. His voice was deep, gravelly, but not unkind.
I shook my head quickly. "No. No, thank you. I'm fine."
"Water? Sparkling? Still?"
"No," I insisted, my voice sounding thin in the echoey room. "Really. Nothing."
He studied me for a second, his face unreadable, then gave a sharp nod. "Very well."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps swallowed by the plush rugs. I let out a shaky breath. I just wanted this interview to be over. I wanted the job—God knows I needed the money—but being here felt like trespassing on a planet I wasn't built to survive on.
Two minutes later, he returned.
I blinked as he set a silver tray down on the glass coffee table. There was a porcelain cup of tea with steam curling off the top and a slice of chocolate cake that looked rich enough to stop a heart.
"I said no refreshments," I mumbled, looking up at him.
He clasped his hands behind his back. "Mr. Ford prefers his guests comfortable. Eat."
Mr Ford? His name is Mr Ford?
"I'm not a guest," I argued weakly. "I'm applying to be a maid."
"Eat," he repeated. It was firm, but there was a flicker of sympathy in his eyes. "You look like you're going to pass out."
He stepped back, taking up a post by the archway. I looked at the cake. My stomach gave a treacherous growl. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and that had been a single slice of stale toast.
I reached for the fork. My hand trembled, the silver clinking against the china. I took a bite. The chocolate melted on my tongue, sweet and dark. It was, without question, the best thing I had ever tasted. I took another bite, faster this time.
Thump. Thump.
Heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway.
My fork froze halfway to my mouth. My pulse skyrocketed, thumping so hard I felt it in my throat. This was him. The Crime Lord. The King of York City.
I swallowed the cake hard, nearly choking, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, shoving the plate away. I stood up, smoothing down the wrinkles in my worn gown.
The footsteps got louder.
The broad man stepped into the light.
I slumped, my knees nearly giving out. It was just the butler. Again. I hadn't even realized he'd left his post by the archway.
"Jesus," I breathed out. "You scared me."
He didn't smile. He looked at the half-eaten cake, then at me.
"He is ready."
"He?"
"Mr. Ford."
"Oh." The panic returned, sharper this time. "Now?"
"Now." He gestured with a thick hand. "Follow me."
I grabbed my bag, clutching the strap like a lifeline. My legs felt like jelly as I followed him out of the living area.
We approached a staircase that looked less like a way to get upstairs and more like a piece of modern art—a spiral of floating glass and steel. As I placed my foot on the first step, a soft yellow light blinked on from beneath the tread.
"Watch your step," the man rumbled.
"I'm trying," I muttered, gripping the railing.
Every step I took, another light blinked on. Click, flash. Click, flash. It was unnerving, as if the house itself was watching me climb.
We reached the top landing. The hallway stretched out, lined with doors, but he led me to the very end. A set of massive mahogany double doors loomed over us.
The broad man didn't knock. He pushed one door open and stepped aside.
"In," he said.
"You're not coming?" I asked, my voice rising in pitch.
He didn't answer. He just nodded toward the room.
I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped inside.
It was a study. The scent of old paper, leather, and a distinct, spicy cologne hit me instantly. The room was dim, lit only by a desk lamp and the grey light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows.
He was there.
His back was turned to me. He stood by the window, looking out at the city sprawl below.
He was tall. Even from the back, the man radiated power. He wore navy blue dress pants that fit perfectly and a matching waistcoat over a crisp white shirt. His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck.
"...Sōda. Kare ni tsutaete."
He was speaking Japanese. His voice was a low baritone, smooth like velvet dragged over gravel.
I stood by the door, frozen. I didn't know if I should announce myself.
Then, he turned.
My breath hitched. It was a physical reaction, like a punch to the gut.
The papers called him a recluse. But nobody had mentioned that Damien Ford was... this. He was striking. A sharp jawline, dark blonde hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it in frustration, and a face that was severe and beautiful all at once.
He held a phone to his ear with one hand. The other was idly tugging at the loose end of his tie.
He eyed me.
He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He just looked at me, his gaze sweeping from my scuffed shoes to my terrified eyes with clinical detachment.
"Iie. Sore wa watashi no mondai janai," he said into the phone, his tone bored.
I stood there, awkward and shaking. I should leave. I should run.
Then, he did something that made my heart jump into my throat.
He lifted his free hand and curled two fingers, gesturing me to him.
I stayed planted. I glanced behind me, checking if the broad man was there. Maybe he was gesturing to him? But the doors were closed. We were alone.
He looked at me again, his brow furrowing slightly. He gestured again. Impatient.
I doubted. I hesitated.
The door behind me clicked. I spun around. The broad man poked his head in.
"Go," he whispered harshly, nodding toward the boss.
I turned back. The man was watching me, waiting.
I moved. My hands were shaking so badly I had to clasp them together in front of my stomach. I took slow, measured steps, crossing the expensive Persian rug.
When I was five feet away—a respectful distance for an employee—I stopped.
He continued his conversation, switching to a rapid-fire string of Japanese that sounded aggressive. "Kare o kowase. Ima sugu."
He locked eyes with me. He gestured again. Closer.
I swallowed hard. I took another step. I was close enough to smell him now—clean soap, tobacco, and expensive spice.
He didn't break eye contact. He gestured again. Closer.
My heart was pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it over his phone call. I stepped forward until my toes were almost touching his polished dress shoes. There was no space left. If I inhaled too deeply, my chest would brush his waistcoat.
I could hear the tinny voice of the person on the other end of the line screaming something. Mr Ford ignored it.
I tried to focus on his shirt button. I tried to focus on the window behind him. I tried to focus on anything except the way his warm breath fanned over my forehead.
Then, he moved.
I froze.
He reached out, his hand large and warm. He grabbed my chin between his index finger and thumb. The metal of a gold Rolex on his wrist caught the lamplight, flashing in my peripheral vision.
He applied pressure, tilting my head back.
I had no choice. I looked up.
I found myself staring into eyes the color of moss and old gold. They were intense, piercing, and utterly devoid of mercy. They pinned me in place.
He didn't hang up the phone. He just held my chin, inspecting me like I was a piece of art he was considering buying—or breaking.
"...Matte," he said into the phone. Wait. Matte meant Wait.
He lowered the device slightly, his eyes never leaving mine. His thumb stroked my jawline, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver racing down my spine.
"Knot my tie," he whispered, "amore mio."
My brain short-circuited. Knot his tie?
He lifted the phone back to his ear and resumed speaking, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Kare ga nani o itta ka kikoeta..."
He let go of my chin, but he didn't step back. He waited.
It took me three seconds to recover. My hands shot up, trembling violently. I had to touch him.
I reached for the silk fabric around his neck. My knuckles brushed against the warm skin of his throat. He didn't flinch. He continued his conversation, speaking casually, as if he wasn't standing inches away from a terrified eighteen-year-old girl.
"Sorry," I whispered, my fingers fumbling with the silk. "I'm... I'm a bit nervous."
He didn't answer. He just kept talking to the person on the line.
I focused on the knot. Over, under, around. My mother had taught me this years ago. Through the loop.
My hands moved nervously around his neck. To reach the back of the collar and straighten it, I had to step in. My body brushed his. He was solid, like a wall of muscle.
I tightened the knot, sliding it up toward his collar. My eyes were fixed on his throat, watching his Adam's apple bob as he spoke. I was doing everything in my power not to look at him.
Suddenly, the Japanese stopped.
The silence in the room was deafening.
He didn't say goodbye. He didn't hang up. He just stopped talking.
I froze, my hands still resting on the knot of his tie, resting against his chest.
He was staring at something. I could feel the weight of his gaze. It was heavy and physical.
I dared to lift my eyes.
He wasn't looking at the window. He wasn't looking at the room.
He was staring directly at me.
"Done," I breathed, my voice barely a squeak.
He didn't blink. He just stared, those green eyes darkening, burning through every defense I thought I had.
"What is your name?" he asked softly.
"Dove," I whispered. "Dove Johnson."
"Dove," he tested the word, rolling it around his mouth like fine wine. "Fitting."
He dropped the phone onto the desk behind him without looking. He reached up, his hand covering mine where it rested on his tie. His palm was hot.
"You're hired. You'll be working as my maid starting tommorow. We discuss the schedule tomorrow."
"I... I haven't even shown you my references."
"I don't care about your references," he said, stepping into my space, forcing me to tilt my head back again.
"Sir?"
"You can leave, Dove," he said, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "Before I decide to keep you here for something other than cleaning."
I yanked my hand back as if I'd been burned. "Thank you. Sir. Thank you."
I spun around, my legs tangling, and practically ran for the door. I grabbed the handle, twisting it with sweaty palms.
"Dove," he called out just as I opened the door.
I froze, looking back. He was leaning against the desk, arms crossed, the tie I had just knotted looking perfect against his white shirt.
"Wear the black dress tomorrow," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "It'd feet your maid uniform more."
I nodded, unable to speak, and bolted into the hallway, the image of his eyes burned into the back of my mind.