Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
It feels like I’m driving toward a tornado instead of away from it. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing to attention, despite the wetness of my nape, and a peculiar sensation is making my stomach a swishy mess.
My jitters are understandable when you learn of my past. I’ve yet to meet a pleasant rich person. Still, I usually portray an aura of confidence. I haven’t been this nervous since I showed up at Aleena’s twelfth birthday with ripped jeans and a handmade card.
I breathe out a handful of butterflies in my stomach when a message from Nikita pops up on the screen of my ride’s fancy navigation system.
Keet:
Chin up. Chest out. You’ve got this.
I picture her eye roll while speaking my reply to Siri.
Me:
It’s a PA position for a man overcompensating for his peanut cock with a massive mansion. I’ve totally got this.
After slowing the roll of the tires, I snap a picture of the huge country estate coming up over the horizon and attach it to my outgoing message before continuing down the winding driveway.
A reply from Nikita pops up on the dashboard screen two seconds later.
Keet:
Holy marshmallow. Is that a palace?
Her inability to swear reminds me of how I got a last-minute placement on an interview schedule finalized before I had submitted an application.
The resident of this huge stately manor is a friend of Mikhail’s. He said she usually replaces her rotation of personal assistants with a temp agency, but with a move in the works requiring new contacts, she branched out to the employment agency I’ve been seeking guidance from for the past fourteen months.
As a long line of garages comes into sight, I convey my requests to Siri.
“Hey Siri, send a message to Mikhail.”
If Siri didn’t work the same in every country, I’d struggle to understand her reply. “Что бы вы хотели сказать?”
“What field does KADOK Industries specialize in?”
Siri repeats my message before asking if I want to send it.
I answer yes.
“Done.”
While waiting for Mikhail’s reply, I summarize my own response.
The gardeners maintaining the impeccable lawns are wearing sun-safe long-sleeved shirts and pants as expected. The man jogging toward me to park my car is more casually dressed than showy. His dress shirt is ironed and tucked in, but his ensemble is minus the jacket and tie most old-money staff have. It announces the owner of KADOK Industries grew his wealth himself or his family’s wealth is relatively new—say the last century or less.
As I arrive at the front of a large rotunda-style entryway, a valet opens the door of my borrowed ride. “Interviews are being held in the state room in the east wing.”
He chuckles when I request to be directed to the north so I can work out which quarter of this architectural wonder may be the east wing.
I settle on brand-new money when he places his hands on my shoulders to twist me to face north. Touching is a big no with old money—even when they pay for precisely that.
After sending a quick message to Nikita advising I will buzz her once my interview is over, I toss my phone and purse into the glove compartment before heading in the direction another half a dozen women are walking.
I grimace when I recall how badly I bombed during my last group interview. I don’t do well in group situations. I’m usually too busy watching for the knife that is forever directed at my back when the competition realizes my Es are natural instead of paying attention to the interviewer’s questions.
As I enter a set of French doors on the heels of a brunette with long legs and a gorgeous designer skirt, I adjust my bra straps before rolling my shoulders forward.
I really need this job, so if I must act like I was gifted a flat chest from my mother, I’ll work it like a pro.
I’m greeted in the foyer of the east wing by a lady with a bright smile and a thick wad of papers weighing down a flimsy plastic clipboard.
“I don’t see your name on my interview schedule, but if you’re prepared, we can slot you in with these candidates.” After pinning my recently updated resumé to the top of her stack, she peers up at me to check my response.
“Prepared for…?” I’m lost, and my low tone proves it. “My employment agency forwarded my resumé earlier this week. That one is the most up to date.” I point to the lonely sheet of paper she didn’t even glance at during the “that” part of my reply. “Was there something more I was meant to do?”
She smiles at me as if I am daft.
For once, I feel as if her judgment is accurate.
“Most applicants prepare a routine.”
My bewilderment continues. “On how fast they can type?”
She throws her head back and laughs. It is as refined as her glamour portrays. She is a beautiful woman, but miraculously, she doesn’t appear snooty.