Page 27 of The Toy Collector

While picking out my outfit, I felt like fucking Goldilocks. Not too much of this, but not too little either. I think I’ve managed to find the perfect middle ground if I do say so myself.

I exhale and glance at my reflection in the glass doors. My braid is neat and tight, but a few strands have already slipped free to frame my face, softening the sharp angles tension has carved into my features.

Right, I’ve made it this far, and there’s no turning back now. My last chance awaits, and I refuse to leave without an internship. I’m not above begging if that’s what it takes.

The doors part with a hushed whisper, and I’m greeted by a sharply dressed woman, her expression unreadable but not unkind. “You must be Miss Harrington,” she states, her tone certain. There’s no doubt in this woman’s mind which is why she’s telling rather than asking.

“That’s me,” I say, glad my voice doesn’t waver. She nods once, businesslike, and gestures for me to move further into the lobby.

Everything about her is efficient—from the crisp lines of her slate-gray pencil skirt to the perfect twist of her hair at the nape of her neck.

She doesn’t wear much makeup, just a sweep of liner and matte lipstick in the exact color of quiet authority. I can’t tell if she’s forty or fifty, and somehow that makes her feel even more intimidating.

“I’m Maria Wilson, and I’m so glad you accepted my invitation,” she says. “It’s good you arrived early so we don’t have to rush through security.” While she talks, she guides me over to a sleek glass barrier guarded by two men in tailored suits.

There’s no chaotic beep of a grocery store scanner, no barking orders—just quiet precision. A discreet metal arch stands to the side, all matte black and polished chrome, flanked by a conveyor belt leading into a scanner that hums low like it’s already sizing me up.

“If you’ll place your handbag and blazer in the tray, please,” Maria says, gesturing toward the belt.

I do as she asks, watching as the tray slides forward, swallowed by the scanner’s soft blue glow.

“This way,” she says, motioning toward the detector.

My pulse trips as I step through. I’ve done this before—airports, courthouses, even a few political events—but something about doing it here feels different. Like I’m not just being screened for weapons… but for weakness.

Once I’m through the scanner with no issues, I step toward the belt, intending to grab my handbag. But I’m halted by Maria’s hand on my elbow.

“I’m just going to get—”

She interrupts me. “No need. You’re not permitted your handbag or blazer inside the interview room,” she explains.

“Really?” The word slips out before I can stop it. I recover quickly, force a smile, and shrug like it’s nothing.

Maria gives me a sharp nod, then she reaches into the small paper bag I hadn’t even noticed her carrying. “There’s one more thing,” she says as she pulls out what looks an awful lot like a blindfold.

My breath catches as my brain instantly tells me this is strange, that blindfolds don’t belong in interviews. “W-what’s that for?” My voice stumbles, caught between shock and curiosity.

“It’s procedure, Miss Harrington,” she replies smoothly. “If you resist, there’ll be no interview.”

Her tone is firm, final. No room for negotiation, no room to argue. My heart pounds, a split-second war between self-preservation and ambition. But ambition wins. It has to.

“Okay,” I whisper, nodding. Then I turn around, giving Maria my back so she can place the blindfold over my eyes.

The fabric is smooth against my skin, plunging me into darkness. My world narrows, and I focus on my breath, forcing it to steady. I can’t see, but I can hear—the quiet efficiency of the space, the soft footfalls of my guide.

I’m led down a hallway, the carpet beneath my feet muffling each step. My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to reach up and tear off this blindfold, but I resist the urge. I need this too badly to ruin it with nerves.

A door opens, and I’m guided inside a room and onto a chair, the cushion soft against my thighs. The space seems to hum with invisible energy, every nerve tingling in anticipation. My heart hammers in my chest as I strain to hear any sound, anything that might give me a clue about who else is in here.

There’s breathing—steady, controlled—but I can’t tell how many people are in here. Not even when a chair creaks which is followed by someone shifting their weight. The hush isn’t hostile—it’s hungry. I sense that whoever is here is waiting, watching.

My skin prickles with goosebumps, not just from the cool air, or from the loss of sight. But from the feeling of being seen—of being studied.

“Piper Harrington.” The deep and commanding voice sends a shiver down my spine. “My name is Rafe. Welcome to the internship interview here at Blackwood Strategic Advisory.”

I square my shoulders, forcing myself to focus. “Thank you.” My voice holds steady despite the whirlwind of emotions coursing through me. “I’m honored to be here.”

The interview begins with standard questions about my political strategy, ambitions, and goals. I answer confidently, my passion for public service evident in my tone.

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