The following morning, I make my way to M Corp, a company I've long dreamed of working for. Renowned as the most prestigious financial group on downtown Seattle, landing a job here would be a dream come true. As I approach the skyscraper that houses M Corp, I'm immediately struck by its grandeur. The towering structure looms overhead, its sleek glass facade reflecting the morning sunlight. The entrance is adorned with polished marble, and the revolving doors beckon me inside with a sense of anticipation. As I step through the entrance, I'm greeted by the hustle and bustle of the lobby, where professionals in sharp suits and bustling interns mingle amidst the impressive architecture. The atmosphere is charged with energy, and I can't help but feel a surge of excitement as I envision myself working in such a prestigious environment.
I walk over to the receptionist and inquire which room the interview is holding. She directs me to the 10th floor, and I step out of the elevator once I reach my destination. As I enter the floor, I'm greeted by a group of other candidates, all looking impeccably dressed and exuding an air of professionalism. I can't help but feel a pang of insecurity as I glance down at my own outfit—a black pencil skirt paired with a blue blouse borrowed from my mom's closet. It's obvious that the attire isn't mine, and it looks a bit outdated. Do I even stand a chance, being just a high school graduate? Correction, I haven't even graduated yet. I applied for a junior analyst role, one of the few positions available for individuals without a college degree, but that doesn't mean others with better qualifications couldn't apply either.
Sweat forms on my brow, and I quickly swipe it away, feeling the pressure mounting. I take a deep breath, attempting to calm my nerves. After all, I passed the exam they administered, so I must have something to offer. I square my shoulders and steel myself for the interview ahead.
"You've got this, Hannah," Poppy says, and a small smile plays on my lips at her words.
"What would I do without you?"
"Probably die," she says, chuckling lightly.
"Thank you," I reply gratefully.
"Anything for my human. Now focus. You've got this," she encourages one last time before cutting off our connection.
With Poppy's words echoing in my mind, I take a deep breath and steel myself for the interview ahead. Walking over to an empty chair, I take my seat and clasp my hands together, willing them to stop shaking. I try my best to keep my feet still as I wait for my turn.
Slowly, the number of people in the room begins to dwindle until only about three of us are left. My heart pounds in my chest as I hear my name called, and for a moment, my breathing seizes. It takes about ten seconds for me to remember that I have to respond to the person who called me.
"Here," I say, quickly shooting up from my seat.
"Go in," the secretary instructs before returning to her station.
I smooth out my skirt, even though it didn't have any wrinkles, a subconscious gesture to boost my confidence. Taking a deep breath, I lift my head high and repeat to myself, "I got this!" As I move toward the door, I enter the interview room and find two interviewers waiting. One has his back to the door, engrossed in his phone conversation. In contrast, the other offers me an encouraging smile and gestures for me to sit opposite him.
"My name is Jeremy," he begins. "Please tell me about yourself and why you think you would be best for this position," he prompts once I'm seated.
I take a moment to compose my thoughts before responding, determined to make a strong impression. I maintain a confident demeanor as I begin to share interesting details about myself that will highlight my suitability for the job. However, my focus wavers slightly as the other person in the room remains preoccupied with their phone call. Despite the distraction, I manage to answer a few more questions, striving to maintain my professionalism.
Finally, the individual on the phone concludes their call and turns their attention to our interview. But as I continue speaking, my words falter and catch in my throat. My mouth hangs open in disbelief, and I blink rapidly, hoping that my eyes are deceiving me. However, even after multiple blinks, the sight before me remains unchanged. There he sits, filling the chair with his presence and altering the room's atmosphere entirely.
"Continue, Hannah," Alex says, his gaze fixed on me with an unreadable expression. Meanwhile, my mind races with a whirlwind of thoughts. What is he doing here? Did he know it was me when he answered his call? I know I said my name, but I'm not the only Hannah Kinsley in the world. Lost in my thoughts, I hadn't paid attention to the scents lingering in the air, my mind too nervous to focus. But then it dawns on me—what Alex is doing here.
I remember when I was collecting information about the company, I found out that the name of the president was Alex. However, I didn't consider the possibility that it could be the same Alex Stone I know. The absence of any images of the president and his young age made it difficult to connect the dots. I'm stunned that he's running such a successful company at such a young age.
I recall that Alex inherited the company from his maternal grandfather, but his accomplishments far surpass those of his ancestors. Who would have imagined that the future heir to the Sky Pack would rise to become the CEO of the human world's top financial corporation? Probably no one.
"Hannah," Alex calls my name, his voice slightly elevated and tinged with a hint of annoyance. That's not good. I quickly try to recall the question I was asked so I can finish answering it.
But before I can, Alex interrupts, saying, "Don't answer Mr. Jeremy's question."
"Okay," I respond, feeling a knot forming in my stomach.
"Answer this instead. Imagine you're given a dataset containing financial information for a company over the past five years. The CEO wants to understand the company's financial performance trends and identify areas for improvement. How would you approach analyzing this dataset to provide actionable insights and recommendations?" Alex's unexpected question sends a jolt of anxiety coursing through me, catching me off guard. My heart skips a beat as I grapple with the complexity of his inquiry. Why is he throwing such a challenging task my way?
"How would I approach analyzing the dataset?" I echo his question, buying myself a precious moment to gather my thoughts amidst the mounting pressure. My mind races as I sift through potential strategies, searching for the most coherent response.
"Yes, and also answer this. Suppose you're tasked with forecasting the financial performance of a company for the next fiscal year. However, you only have limited historical data available, and there are significant external factors affecting the industry, such as regulatory changes and economic uncertainty. How would you approach building a reliable financial forecast under these conditions, and what methods or tools would you employ to mitigate risk and uncertainty?" He says, hitting me with another difficult one.
What in the moon goddess's name is Alex playing at? Is he intentionally trying to sabotage my chances at this job? Does the idea of working with me bother him somehow? Because if it doesn't, I can't fathom why he's making it so challenging for me to ace this interview. I do my utmost to tackle each question to the best of my ability, but Alex shows no sign of relenting. His barrage of increasingly challenging inquiries leaves me feeling drained and defeated. As the interview draws to a close, a sense of resignation settles over me like a heavy cloak. I can already anticipate the outcome—I won't be getting the job.
With a heavy heart, my shoulders slump, and a pout forms on my lips. It's utterly disheartening to realize that I may have lost the opportunity simply because of my connection to the president. It's supposed to work in my favor, not against me. Even more frustrating is that Alex is my mate—he should have been upfront with me about my chances from the start. I can't help but feel like the unluckiest person in the world at this moment.
I drag myself out of the room and into the elevator. Even as I reach the ground floor, I continue to walk with the same defeated pace. Stepping out onto the bustling streets, I'm caught off guard as a sleek Mercedes AMG suddenly comes to a halt before me. My lips part, ready to unleash my frustration, but I freeze as the window rolls down to reveal Alex.
"Alex?" I exclaim, shocked to see him here.
"Get in the car," he barks, his tone brooking no argument.
"Why?" I counter, crossing my arms firmly over my chest. We're not in the interview room anymore, and he no longer holds the upper hand.
"I don't have to fucking explain everything to you. Get in the car," he commands, his irritation evident.
"No," I huff, defiantly stepping around the vehicle. But before I can take more than ten steps, my feet leave the ground, and I let out a scream of terror as Alex suddenly hoists me over his shoulders.
"Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve you as a second chance mate," he mutters, tossing me unceremoniously into the back of the limousine.
"Alex!" I exclaim, my anger simmering at his behavior.
"Hannah," he growls, closing his eyes briefly. "I don't have time for your shit right now. Just sit down so we can be on our way."
I narrow my eyes at him, noting his foul mood, and reluctantly sink back into the seat, withdrawing my hand from the door handle. I don't think it's best to continue fighting with him.
"Let's go," he instructs the driver, and the car purrs to life, merging into the chaotic flow of Seattle traffic.