Page 14 of Rotanev
Alas, no one wanted to hire someone with a mostly completed business degree.
“I’ll have it to you in ten days,” I said, mustering a confidence I didn’t feel.
HowI would manage it was another issue entirely. But I lacked a choice in the matter. I either figured it out or paid the price of my mother’s sins.
“I like you, Liani,” he said softly. “Let’s keep it that way.”
A subtle threat, one that scattered goose bumps along my sweater-clad arms.How my mother ever trusted this man…I fought the urge to shake my head and stood instead. “See you soon, Corban.”
“Yes. You will.” He dismissed me with a wave of his elegant hand, his gold ring glistening in the late afternoon sun streaming in through his office windows.
His bodyguard stood waiting at the door, the ugly white scar adorning his cheek and jaw seeming to mock me. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. He merely twisted the handle and escorted me down the pristine hallway and deposited me in the elevator without so much as a glance.
I collapsed against the steel walls, alone at last, and let out the shaky breath I’d been holding. “What are you doing?” I whispered to myself, cringing.
If JBI didn’t hire me, I was fucked.
When I asked Veronica about it this morning, she said JBI would be in touch either way, and at this point, no news was actually good news. Because it meant they were likely going through the process of bringing me on.
“It’s much easier to dismiss someone,” she’d said.
I hope you’re right, I thought for the thousandth time.
But I couldn’t rely on her, or JBI, or anyone other than myself. That was the one lesson my mother had instilled in me in life.
The doors opened into an expansive lobby lined with marble and gold, and two more of Corban’s goons. They watched as I made my way across the floor, my heels clacking with every step.
Then I was outside.
Free.
For now.
* * *
“Name three adjectives that describe you,”the restaurant manager said, his attention on the notepad in his sweaty palms. He’d barely been able to meet my gaze when I’d arrived, making me question his managerial position.
“Punctual, efficient, and kind,” I replied, using the politest voice I could muster.
He nodded, writing that down.
“Tell me about a time when you faced a difficult customer situation”—he squinted at the scribbles on his pad—“and how you resolved it.”
This had to be the worst interview ever. At least my audition for JBI had been interesting.
And, well, pleasing.
I gave him an example, then answered some of his other canned questions before shaking his too-damp hand and leaving the pizzeria.
Interview number five—done.
I had two more this week, and less than seven days to come up with the funds for Corban. Despair hung just over my head, threatening to pour all over my future. But I extended my metaphorical umbrella to keep the storm clouds at bay and forced myself to walk the six blocks back to my studio apartment.
There was still time.
I could do this.
I had to.
