It's Monday morning. Streets and roads are bustling with people and children who are rushing to their respective places. Ah! How boring yet busy human life can be. Anyway, New York is a hectic and crowded city, particularly in the morning hours, especially on MONDAYS. So, I don't regret one bit starting an hour early for the "Wellington Literary Emporium." Nevertheless, all CEOs are punctual and stern, so it's better to be smart and mindful about first impressions. Although I am quite grateful to get a cab in such an early hour rush, and grateful to be away from the crowd and direct sunlight. Vampire instincts, aren't they? But believe me, I am a human, just a slightly odd one.
Just graduation is not enough, especially not for paving a way in a foreign land; but talent and passion beat it. I am seventeen, just graduated from a school in India two weeks ago. And now, I'm working as an intern, taking interviews of 'big money-makers' to print on magazine frontlines, just for the money and power showoffs of those control freaks. Just as pathetic as it sounds, I have no choice in this short span to make ends meet. And, believe me when I say this is just another temporary job before I get comfortable or quite settled in this city. My background as an INDIAN and a recent graduate isn't helping much with the situation, including the fact that bold and daring me chose to come here despite my family's clear disapproval. Still, I've managed four days in New York on my own, and I am looking forward to living on my own just like this. Birds may live in their parents' nest, but not for long before they set flight to scale the beautiful heights of skies, and the thousand shades of sunsets and sunrises.
The building is enormous, maleficent, and grand. I must admit that it is incredibly sparkling, as if the throngs of people I see don't even exist here. Men and women are jingling like bells here and there, seniors are barking orders, and the cleaning staff are on their duties: as if they don't know that the floor and glass are already immaculate. Whoever their CEO is, they are seriously a control-freak and damn strict, even inhumane. Even a blind person would end up with such a deduction; one doesn't have to be a great observer for this.
I made my way to the receptionist, doing my best to weave my way through this mass. Seeing this many people suffocates me, and their unintentional touches and pushes are horrendous, unsettling, and utterly disgusting. But thank the seven hells I made my way without facing anything too disturbing. I may look insane or whatever, but that is more endurable than those tough phobias. The tanned woman eyed me warily as I walked near her, especially noticing my constant attempts to jump away from any person. But clearly I don't care. As beautiful as this place is, I'd prefer to live in an uninhabited slum rather than here.
"I am here for an interview with Mr. Wellington, scheduled at precisely 10 AM. Please verify his availability and provide directions to his office. I'll wait—after all, time does have its own sense of irony," I informed.
The woman seemed visibly frustrated, whether from her job, her boss, or perhaps it was just her natural attitude. Still, she had to respond—it was part of her job, after all.
With a touch of rudeness in her voice, she said, "Your name, girl? I'll check and confirm your appointment."
"Aleena Rae Hayes."
She stared at her screen for a few solid minutes before nodding.
"I see. Take a left from here, and after about five steps, take a short right. You'll find the elevator. Press the button for the fifth floor, and you'll be in Mr. Wellington's office area. Wait there until you're called."
Her voice carried an unmistakable American accent, smooth and fast-paced. Yet, something about her felt local. Maybe it was how effortlessly that accent flowed from her tongue or her composed demeanor. The crisp white shirt paired with a neatly tailored office skirt was further proof that she was an American. Well, sometimes clothes don't matter in such cases.
"Grateful," I muttered and followed her directions.
Easy: left, then a short right, made it to the elevator, pressed the fifth button, and here we are. Anything but easy with so many people. Okay, take a deep breath and here we go. Fifteen minutes, fifteen long minutes passed, and still there were exactly five more minutes before the clock struck my appointment time. Impatience was gnawing at me as I waited in this endless waiting area of the CEO's office. There were maybe two dozen people waiting for their chance as, one by one, they slipped into the office and came out, making way for the next person. I didn't know what was going on, and I didn't give a damn about it. Even with so many people, the waiting area was as silent and still as a graveyard. And I was grateful for this little civilized stillness and conduct.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1… and it was 10 o'clock. Huff! Finally. I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the moment. I decided not to wait to be called in and strode toward the door, just as a man, seemingly in his mid-twenties, stepped out. This was it—my chance. I was confident that the punctual and strict CEO was well-aware of his appointments. So, waiting to be called seemed a worthless formality. Gripping my laptop a little tighter, I walked past the individuals waiting in utter silence. Some appeared to be rambling quietly, perhaps revising what they planned to say; a test or an interview, whatever it was. However, what truly captured my attention was the striking contrast between my attire and the outfits of the women here. They were impeccably dressed, adorned in fashionable clothes and elaborate makeup. It was enough to make me feel a tad self-conscious. My simple, oversized white t-shirt and baggy jeans suddenly felt out of place. The sharp clicking of high heels echoed through the space, drawing my gaze down to my own choice of footwear: sneakers. Somehow, those sounds emphasized the disparity even more.
I stepped through the office doors without hesitation, the air thick with tension. My voice cut through the stillness, sharp and unwavering.
"Mr. Wellington, I need a moment of your time. Just a few minutes—assuming, of course, you can spare them."
Mr. Wellington, if he was as punctual as legend said, knew I was next. His office was a pure power fantasy: dark wood, shining glass, skyscraper views. The desk alone could crush egos. Books, awards, intimidating art. It was the kind of place where people said things like "leverage synergy" and forgot what sleep was. And him? Piercing blue eyes. Blond curls that somehow looked accidental and perfect. The suit was probably stitched by angels. Mid-twenties, maybe. Everything about him screamed CEO with control issues and a skincare routine. He looked me over. Amused. Dangerous. Silent.
"You're bold," he remarked, a trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Not many people walk into this office unannounced, much less with such… conviction."
He straightened, resting his hands on the desk, his gaze locking onto yours like a hawk sizing up its prey. He gestured to the chair in front of him with a subtle flick of his hand, his tone steady but unyielding.
"Sit down, and let's hear what you have to say. But first, I think introductions are in order."
"Aleena Rae Hayes," I said, my voice steady, unflinching.
He raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening. "That's it?"
There was an edge of intrigue in his tone, like he was assessing me as one might an unexpected variable in a well-oiled machine.
"For introductions, it's more than enough," I shot back, matching his intensity.
The room seemed to still, his eyes locking on mine as though peeling back layers to uncover whatever secrets lay beneath. Finally, he leaned forward, resting his elbows lightly on the desk.
"Very well, Ms. Hayes," he said, his tone carrying a note of challenge.
Mr. Wellington tilted his head slightly, his piercing gaze never breaking away from mine.
"You've certainly made an impression," he said smoothly, his voice calm but edged with something unspoken, a subtle test lingering beneath his words. "Let's start with something simple. Tell me, Ms. Hayes, what makes you think you're the right fit for this position?"
For a moment, I blinked, my composure nearly slipping. Position? The realization hit me, but I didn't let it show. He thought I was here for a job—a writer's role, perhaps, in his company. The irony of the situation almost made me smirk. I wasn't about to let him think I was caught off guard. If he wanted to test me, I'd give him a show. I crossed one leg over the other, leaning back in my seat with a calmness that matched his.
"Why wouldn't I be?" I countered, keeping my tone cool and deliberate. "If you're looking for someone bold, unrelenting, and capable of delivering something no one else can, then I'd say I'm more than qualified."
His lips twitched, not quite a smile but enough to tell me I'd piqued his interest.
"Confidence," he murmured, leaning back as if giving himself a moment to consider. "It's a trait that separates the good from the exceptional. But I don't hire based on words, Ms. Hayes. I need action. Results. So, tell me—what's the first thing you'd tackle if you were part of Wellington Literary Emporium?"
I felt a flicker of amusement, leaning forward now. He wasn't going to let up, I thought. If this was a battle of wits, I wasn't about to lose.
"I'd revolutionize your storytelling platforms," I said without hesitation. "Your brand thrives on legacy, but it could lead the charge into the future. Expand your digital reach. Find voices that defy convention. Make literature dangerous again. This is a literary empire—start treating it like one."
For the first time, something shifted in his expression, a glint of real interest flashing in those ocean-deep eyes. He didn't answer immediately, instead tapping his fingers lightly on the desk as though weighing his next move.
.He thought he had me all figured out. But I wasn't here for a job.
"Why don't you tell me this, Mr. Wellington?" I said, leaning in slightly. "What would you consider revolutionary? Because so far, it seems like we're already on the same page."
There was a flicker of something in his gaze—surprise, perhaps, or curiosity—but he quickly masked it with a measured nod.
"Revolutionary, Ms. Hayes, is more than just ambition. It's execution. Let's see if you can turn your words into something real."
And I just gave my signature smirk. Just like that, the lines between interviewer and interviewee blurred further, neither of us willing to give ground. His expression didn't waver, though I caught the briefest flicker of interest in those cold, piercing eyes.
"Ambitious," he murmured. "But ambition without results is meaningless. Can you back it up?"
I matched his gaze, my smile dangerous now.
"I don't need to prove anything, Mr. Wellington," I said, my voice low and cutting. "You'll see for yourself. But first, maybe you should figure out who's really in charge of this conversation."
Mr. Wellington leaned back, his expression unreadable, the faintest flicker of amusement still lingering in his eyes.
"Not bad, Ms. Hayes," he said smoothly, his voice calm yet carrying that ever-present edge of control. "You're quick on your feet, I'll give you that. But I have no tolerance for theatrics. Prove to me that you're more than just words."
His challenge hung in the air, cold and deliberate, but I didn't flinch. I met his piercing gaze head-on, my own unwavering. This wasn't the first time I'd faced someone who underestimated me, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. If he wanted boldness, I'd give him exactly that.
"What's there to prove, Mr. Wellington?" I said, leaning forward slightly, my tone dropping into something sharper, colder. "I don't need to dance for your approval. If I'm here, it's because I've already earned my place. Whether you see it or not isn't my concern."
His blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly, his calculating mind clearly at work.
"Confidence," he murmured, almost to himself. "It's not entirely misplaced. But confidence without substance is a dangerous thing, Ms. Hayes. Care to show me what's beneath all that bravado?"
My smirk sharpened, cold and deliberate.
"Careful, Mr. Wellington," I replied, my voice carrying a hint of venom. "You might find yourself surprised by what I bring to the table."
I let the silence stretch for a beat, just enough to unsettle, to assert my control over the conversation.
"But since you insist, let me ask you this—how do you intend to lead a literary empire if you can't even recognize who's holding the pen?"
For a moment, the air between us seemed to freeze, thick with tension and challenge. His lips quirked into a smirk, but this time, it felt sharper, more dangerous.
"Interesting choice of words, Ms. Hayes," he said, his tone softer now, but no less cutting. "Are you suggesting I've underestimated you?"
"I'm not suggesting anything," I shot back, my tone cold and precise. "I'm stating a fact. And when you realize it, perhaps you'll see this conversation for what it is."
He studied me then, the weight of his gaze heavy enough to make most people squirm. But I wasn't most people. I leaned back in my chair, my posture composed, dangerous, and let him process the puzzle he hadn't yet solved. Finally, he spoke, his voice lower now, more deliberate.
"You're not like the others," he said, his words carrying an edge of intrigue. "But that doesn't mean you're an exception. Everyone has something to prove, Ms. Hayes. So, tell me—why are you really here?"
This time, it was my turn to let the silence linger. I tilted my head slightly, my smile sharpening.
"I could answer that," I said, my voice even, dangerous. "But where's the fun in giving everything away? Maybe you should figure it out."
His smirk widened, though his eyes remained sharp, calculating.
"Dangerous games, Ms. Hayes," he said softly. "But I suppose you wouldn't be here if you weren't willing to play them."
The misunderstanding still hung in the air between us, a web that neither of us was in a hurry to untangle. Mr. Wellington's sharp gaze locked onto mine, his expression calm but crackling with unspoken tension. He leaned back slightly, his movements measured, his hands clasped as he waited for me to speak. The faint smirk on his lips was the only crack in his otherwise icy demeanor—a silent dare, as if he thought he was still in control. Enough was enough. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the armrests, my gaze slicing straight through his. My voice, when I spoke, was low but cutting, a blade honed for precision.
"You've made a mistake, Mr. Wellington," I said, my words landing with the weight of a dropped guillotine. "I'm not here for a job."
The smirk faltered, just for a fraction of a second. He covered it quickly, his blue eyes narrowing as he scrutinized me.
"No?" he asked, his voice as calm as ever, though I could feel the subtle shift in the air. "Then what, pray tell, are you here for?"
I allowed a dangerous smile to curve my lips, cold and deliberate.
"I'm here to interview you," I said, enunciating each word as though it were the final line of a story he hadn't expected. "For Writers' Den Magazine."
The silence that followed was deafening. His piercing gaze remained locked on mine, the weight of it nearly tangible, as though he were dissecting every syllable I had spoken. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned back in his chair, clasping his fingers in front of him. The smirk returned, sharper this time, its edges honed with something far more dangerous—curiosity mixed with challenge.
"I see," he said softly, his voice smooth and controlled, though there was an unmistakable edge to it. "You're full of surprises, Ms. Hayes. I'll admit, this isn't quite what I was expecting."
"Go ahead and recheck your schedule, Mr. Wellington. Nevertheless, I take my work seriously," I retorted.
"I have been wondering this for quite a moment now; you seem really young, like a recent graduate, for a writer's post—actually, even for an interviewer," he clearly stated the obvious.
"Well, for any profession, age doesn't matter; your excellence and commitment beat it. And speaking of my age, yes, I'm seventeen, just graduated, and here I am."
I opened my laptop to find the questions while the guy kept looking at me—and don't ask me why, because clearly, I'm oblivious about that.
"So I assume you're in this unfamiliar land for university."
"So it seems."
I answered while searching for my file on the screen. Where's the stupid file? Damn.
"I'm curious about your knowledge in this literature field, so an amateur writer? Or a literature student?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters, Ms. Hayes," his gaze was so intense, at one moment I felt he could just see through me. "It matters. You can write for my company. It would be such a shame to lose talent and such a great passion for words."
It startled me. I wasn't planning to win a chance which was never supposed to be mine. I came to interview him, not to be his candidate to be interviewed. Finally, I got the file.
"Back to business, Mr. Wellington. Your name? Actually, it's not a question I am supposed to ask, but I simply don't know."
I seriously should have researched him beforehand.
"Oh, you don't have to. You can simply call me yours," he smirked.
Such a cheeky line wasn't expected from a CEO. Call you mine, my foot.
"Let's get this over with quickly. I'm sure you're pretty busy; so am I," I snapped.
"Davis," he said, but that cruel smirk never left his lips.
Davis Wellington, interesting name. I continued asking him the questions I was assigned.
"Are you single?"
"WHAT?"
"To be clear, I am only asking you the hot questions from the internet; nothing from my side."
I immediately said, not wanting any more misunderstandings. He choked on his laughter and barely managed to roll words from his mouth,
"What do you think?"
I didn't know that CEOs like him were capable of smiling, let alone laughing. Although it was clear that he was enjoying teasing me. And I wouldn't let him.
"If you have a girlfriend, then I'm jealous of her; and if you're single, then honestly, that's the worst," and then I offered my signature smirk.
Now it was my turn to enjoy. Darling, next time you will think twice before messing with me.Maybe I was just being delusional, but I saw something darken in his eyes. One second it was there, and the next, nothing. Possibly, he masked it.
"I guess I'm in the status which you consider probably the worst," he shot back using my words; not a bad attempt.
The faintest of smiles tugged on his lips. Maybe it was the first time he'd smiled for real, or maybe not. It was not exactly a smile, just a hint of it. But the way his eyes sparkled and annoyingly breathtaking dimples formed a slight curve was enough proof to say he actually smiled.