"Mr. Ivanov will be with you shortly, in the meantime, could I get you anything sweetheart?"
The elderly woman asked with a warm smile. The dire nerves she was currently suffering weakened at the sound of the friendly voice. Bright blue eyes, short grey hair and a loving smile. The housekeeper had been nothing but accommodating to the twenty-year-old the second she had arrived at the property.
"Oh," replied Rika, shaking her head. "I'm good, but thank you anyway." She placed her handbag down onto her lap and straightened up her posture. The kind woman gave her another smile before turning around and fleeing the spacious study behind the large oak door she had entered from.
Breathe, she reminded herself. In, out, in out.
Still, she couldn't stop find the appropriate time to exhale out her shaky breath, she was in Slater—fucking—Ivanov's study for goodness sake. The very man to produce every hit single to ever exist, that being both current and of all time. She was certain her application had gotten lost in the post, and then only last night did she receive an email in her inbox confirming the interview at the fancy manor.
And so, here she currently was- on the other side of Manhattan, sitting inside of Slater Ivanov's study waiting for her nerve-wracking interview to begin.
After falling into a bit of a major life crisis, she was running more than a little low on cash. She had used the last bit of her savings on travel fare for the interview. It was safe to say she was freaking out, the thought of possibly having the chance to babysit for the famous music producer was plenty of pressure on its own. Though the trauma was lessening the longer she sat in the grand abode. The second she had been accepted for the interview, she was certain it was all one big mistake.
Rika was waiting for a crew of people to jump out and yell 'gotcha!' at her.
It was too good to be true, and good things never happened to the struggling young woman.
She had always had a hard life, from being an orphan and jumping through the foster care system, life frequently rained down heavily on her. Her almost black eyes flew across the room, scanning everything and anything insight. It was everything she had imagined it would be like.
A large desk paired with an excessively big computer, various different expensive gadgets scattered around the place. The woodsy feel made the room appear homely, and cosy. All-around, it was a neat, well-kept-after study, to the side sat a mountainous bookshelf; although, in true celebrity fashion, no authentic books decorated the shelves. There was a myriad of trophies, ranging from some small and others so large, that they took up an entire row. It was far too many trophies for her to count, the achievements were clearly not hidden away. He most definitely was a proud man, and she didn't blame him. Heck, she would be too if she was in his shoes.
Her darting eyes drifted off to the side and honed in on a particular row.
One, two, three, four, five...
Holy shit, how many Grammy's did this man have again?
Suddenly, her mouth ran dry- she felt parched. Rika mentally cursed herself for refusing the glass of water from the housekeeper, she didn't know how on earth she was going to speak to someone who possessed as many Grammy's as he did.
She hastily skimmed over the mini autobiography she had engrained into her brain, she had come prepared in advance.
Thirty-four years of age, father of two daughters, recently widowed. Said daughters were the young age of five, and seven was it? No, no, eight. Given names, Lilia Rose, five; Janessa Kamile, eight. Preferred names, Lia and Nessie Ivanov.
Since the journey had been an overly lenghthy one, she made sure to research enough about the producer so that she couldn't be too stunned. Or completely star-stuck, much like she currently was.
He's a normal person just like you, she tried to reassure herself.
A airy snort left her nostrils at her own pathetic lie, yeah right 'he was a normal person just like her' if that meant already being on her third eviction notice this month and having no running hot water.
Ah crap, she needed to top up on the hot water.
Whizzing thoughts whirled around her busy psyche, and the doubt started to seep in, making her question her belonging. She weighed the options out, thinking about it logically. How much did she have in common with an established wealthy family, if she didn't know the first thing about extreme wealth?
Glancing down at her own attire, she gave her ensemble a through look. Adorned in what was supposed to be a black pencil skirt instead was a faded grey shade that was way too old and fit snug around her curvy hips. Her navy coloured blouse was no better, it clashed with her creamy skin tone and her black hair that had been left down her back. She couldn't find any hair ties so the long locks were parted down the middle, further drowning her weary features.
The only upside to her appearance, her makeup. She managed to put some makeup on, her lashes were coated in mascara, however, they didn't show up regardless of the 'lengthening and volumising product'. She blamed her stub lashes on her Japanese side, her eyes were almond-shaped and slightly hooded. Her nose was small, but flared out. Her pale skin meant that her full rosy cheeks almost constantly made an appearance. Much to her disappointment, she hated that she blushed so easily.
She knew she could've dressed nicer for the occasion but she had no other formal clothes that would be suitable, after all, living out of a suitcase- meant that she didn't buy new clothes often. She'd rather choose food and rent over clothes.
Staring at her chipped nails and beat-up heels, she sucked in a deep breath as her straight thick brows furrowed together.
Oh, who was she kidding, this was a big mistake. She couldn't do this, she was setting herself up for failure believing she had a shot at the Ivanov residence.
Maybe, she wasn't the right person for the job after all.
The moment she decided to get up from her seat, rising up to her short height, the sound of the door knob turning broke her out of her little trance.
Rika swallowed back her roaring nerves and turned her head around to face the door. She nearly bumped into her chair when she spotted a young child wearing dungarees and blonde pigtails, starting directly at her.
"Are you the new nanny? Daddy says he needs to speak to you." A high pitched tone mumbled, the words came out broken and said in a adorable baby voice.
A warm smile crept onto her innately pouty lips, and she let out a weak laugh. "Oh, hi there, sweetheart..."
The little girl who looked no older than five, jumped slightly when their eyes met. She didn't stay behind for long, her big green eyes filling with fright when heavy footfalls approached the study, an abrupt giggle erupted out of her.
One blink, and she disappeared into thin air.
That made the older woman frown, she had watched the youngster run but she had absolutely no idea where she'd gone off too. She left so quickly, and then a much deeper voice cut her worrying short.
"Lilia Rose! Didn't I tell you to wait for Daddy?" There was a slight accent to his words, he didn't linger behind, pushing the door open wider. "Fucking kids, never fucking listen..." grumbled the bitter man to himself, his polished Oxford shoes tapped noisily against the hardwood flooring.
Rika could only gawk at the tall Russian as he entered the room, his overpowering presence took over instantly. Dressed in wearing a suit that was a lot more expensive than anything she had on, it was black, sleek and paired of with a black button-up shirt and a matching black tie. His figure was tall, lean; he barely spared her a glance walking inside.
"H-Hello. Good morning, Mr Ivanov, it's so nice to meet you." She rushed out, cringing at her greeting whilst, nonetheless, jutting out her hand. He rounded the desk, taking a seat in his leather seat and ignoring her address completely.
She stood there, hand still out for him to take following his every move with her eyes. The first thing she noticed was how his dirty blonde almost brown hair looked a lot softer in real life. His jaw was chiselled and strong as if it had been delicately carved out by a sculptor. Honey-flecked eyes that were a mixture of green and light brown.
"I can't be fucked to go through all these applications, so why should I hire you? A student is it?" He flicked over the paper on his desk for a brief second.
Sit down or stay standing, she pondered.
Peeking over at him, she realised he still had yet to look at her and cleared her throat planting her bottom back down onto the chair. "Yes," She answered him fast, "well, I'm actually in my final year and I'm studying child development. This would be a great opportunity for me, I've worked as a nanny in the past and since I am already getting a degree in chi—"
He let out a annoyed sounding scoff, picking his head up to look at her finally. Placing the paper down, he moved his hand to open his top drawer and he rummaged through it. "I said tell me why I should hire you, not give me your whole stupid life story." His raspy voice snipped through the crackly air.
Slater Ivanov stared at her the same way one would watch paint dry, no expression, not even any feigned interest. He didn't seem very pleased, his full lips in a tight line, piercing hazel eyes glaring into hers. He took out a packet of cigarette and a electric blue lighter, and her eyes flickered onto his fingers where inked marked his hands came into view. A lion head on the front of his right hand snatched her curiosity.
Rika chewed the insides of her cheeks trying to make sense of his brute temperament. He didn't seem very warm, nor was he polite like she had hoped he'd be.
She didn't know what she had been expecting, he belonged to the music industry. She thought he was at least an easy-going, welcoming person.
That would explain why the housekeeper had been so overly nice, it was to make up for her boss' awful personality.
She realised the pictures didn't do his tattoos any justice, the man had an abundance of dark ink all over him. Even wearing the suit, both of his hands showed none of his own skin, and the same with his neck. He was covered, and from what she recalled according to the worldwide web, the shirtless images of him online confirmed to her that the tattoos were truly everywhere.
He was no ordinary thirty-four-year-old that was for sure.
"What ethnicity are you?" Slater muttered lowly, taking a cigarette out to place into his mouth. She watched his actions in silence, the way he lit the nicotine stick up.
She tried to not make a face, reminding herself that it was his home. Not that she had any problem if he smoked, but she worried the leather furniture would become ruined.
She stared at him unblinkingly, she didn't find it strange that he had asked her. Most people did, she was well aware that her features were familiar to many people yet it would be rude to simply assume.
And borderline racist, she nearly huffed at the memory aloud. If there was something she had gotten her fair share of was racist comment, as disgusting as they all were—she survived living on the rough streets as a youngster, she had grown a thick skin to ignorant comments.
"I'm half-Japanese Mr. Ivanov." She smiled again, this time wide enough to fill up her whole face making her eyes turn upwards.
He took a long drag, blowing out a puff of smoke as his jaw clenched ever so slightly. There was no stubble, he was clean shaven, displaying his high cheekbones. "And the other half?"
"White." Feeling like she was being too informal, she added on, "Mr. Ivanov."
A dry laugh escaped him, though his lips didn't quirk up. "How fascinating." He bluntly said, another cloud of smoke wavered around them. "Alright, so you'll be able to show yourself out then yes?"
Rika was taken aback by his words, "Sorry?"
"I don't think a twenty-something year old is what I'm looking for, my girls needs someone with life experience. Not a timid little girl who looks like she'd be afraid of her own shadow." A menacing chuckle circled her bright pink ears, they were the same shade as her full cheeks.
Her mouth fell open a little, however, he didn't stop there. She was offended, unsure of whether to be embarrassed or mortified.
"Word of advice, the next time you come in for an interview — find yourself a shirt that actually fits you."
Correction, she was utterly mortified.