Page 4 of The Authenticity Clause
"The one and only," Leo said, forcing a smile that felt like it might crack his face.
"They're ready for you. Conference Room B." She pointed down a long, silent hallway. "Just down there on the left."
The walk to Conference Room B was the longest of Leo’s life. The silence was absolute, broken only by the squeak of his slightly-too-new shoes. He felt like an uninvited splash of color in a black-and-white photograph. The door was a solid slab of frosted glass. He could see two silhouettes inside. Taking one last, fortifying breath, he pushed it open.
The first person he saw was a woman with vibrant red hair and a warm, intelligent smile. She stood to greet him. "Leo, hi. I'm Sarah Vance. Thanks so much for coming in."
"The pleasure's all mine," Leo said, shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, confident. She was the V in V&S. His brain, already in overdrive, helpfully supplied:She seems nice. She will be the one who kindly tells you that you are not qualified to design a birthday card, let alone a digital ecosystem.
And then he saw the second person.
The man was sitting at the long conference table, and Leo’s entire nervous system came to a screeching, spectacular halt. It was as if someone had taken the concept of "tall, dark, andhandsome," sent it to a master sculptor, and said, "Yes, that, but make it intimidatingly perfect."
He was wearing a dark charcoal suit that fit him with mathematical precision, his dark hair was impeccably styled, and his jawline looked like it had been carved from a block of fine marble. But it was his eyes that short-circuited Leo’s brain. They were a deep, piercing gray, and they were fixed on Leo with an intensity that was part analytical and part… well, Leo couldn’t quite figure it out. It wasn’t hostile, but it wasn't welcoming either. It was the look of a predator studying a particularly confusing but colorful new species of prey.
This, Leo knew with a sinking certainty, was Julian Thorne.
His entire, carefully constructed persona of a confident professional evaporated. The witty opening line he’d practiced in the mirror vanished. His plan to dazzle them with charm went up in a puff of smoke. All that was left was a single, primal thought:Oh no. He's hot.
"Mr. Hayes," Julian Thorne said, and his voice was exactly what Leo should have expected: a low, smooth baritone that was as elegant and intimidating as the rest of him. He didn’t stand. He didn’t offer to shake hands. He just watched.
"Please, call me Leo," Leo managed, his own voice sounding unnaturally high. He sat down, trying to arrange his limbs in a way that looked professional and not like a startled flamingo.
"So, Leo," Sarah began, her tone friendly and disarming. "Your portfolio was… very impressive. The Stellarium concept, in particular, was fascinating. What was the core inspiration behind that?"
Leo’s mind went blank. The Stellarium concept. The thing he’d designed at three in the morning after watching a documentaryabout Carl Sagan. Inspiration? His inspiration had been caffeine and a sudden, overwhelming urge to draw constellations.
Improvise,his brain screamed.Say something smart!
"It was born from a desire to democratize the sublime," Leo heard himself say. The words just sort of… fell out. "I believe that in our hyper-saturated urban environments, we've lost our connection to the macro-narrative of the cosmos. Stellarium isn't an app; it's a bridge. A bridge back to wonder."
He held his breath. It sounded plausible, right? He chanced a glance at Julian, who was completely still, his expression unreadable. A muscle in his sharp jaw twitched. That was it.
Sarah, however, beamed. "I love that. A bridge back to wonder. Julian, isn't that fantastic?"
Julian’s gaze didn’t leave Leo. "A compelling narrative. But let's talk methodology. Walk me through your process for validating the user journey on a project of that scale. What were your primary KPIs for success?"
KPIs. User journey. The words floated in the air like an alien language. Leo’s internal monologue was now just a high-pitched, sustained scream.
He put on his most thoughtful expression. "That's an excellent question," he began, buying himself precious seconds. "For me, the process isn't linear; it's holistic. It's less about rigid metrics and more about empathic resonance. I believe you can't quantify a user's gasp of wonder. So, my primary KPI… was the potential for awe."
He smiled, a wide, charming, and utterly terrified smile.
This time, Julian’s expression did change. His eyebrows drew together in a look of profound, almost pained confusion. Helooked at Leo as if Leo had just tried to explain quantum physics using only interpretive dance.
"The… potential for awe," Julian repeated slowly, the words sounding foreign and absurd in his precise baritone.
"Exactly," Leo said, doubling down. "You have to feel the design, not just measure it."
The interview continued like that for another twenty minutes, a masterclass in comedic disaster. Sarah would ask a broad, conceptual question, and Leo would answer with a torrent of beautiful, artistic nonsense. Then Julian would follow up with a laser-precise technical question, and Leo would pivot, dodge, and weave, building elaborate metaphors that had absolutely nothing to do with the original query. He compared wireframing to composing a sonata. He described agile methodology as being like a river, "flowing ever onward, yet always adapting to the landscape."
Through it all, Julian just watched, his gray eyes tracking every word, every gesture. The intense focus should have made Leo more nervous, but somewhere amidst the panic, a strange, exhilarating current began to flow. It was a challenge. A beautiful, stone-faced, perfectly-tailored challenge. And a part of Leo, the reckless artist part, was having the time of his life trying to make him crack. He wanted to see him smile. He wanted to see him do anything other than look at him like he was a fascinatingly flawed piece of code.
Finally, Julian leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table. The small movement silenced the room.
"One last question, Leo," he said, his voice quiet but carrying immense weight. "You say you're a Digital Experience Designer. So, define 'experience'. In your own words. No metaphors."
The final boss. The one question he couldn't charm his way out of.
