It was finally Friday. And in t-minus thirty minutes, the interview I’d been looking forward to all week was set to commence.

I’d dressed in my finest suit for this, which meant I was wearing pretty much the same thing I wore for every interview, an ensemble that included my much hated black-patent heels. I had only been wearing them for an hour, most of which I’d spent sitting as I drove from the Virginia suburbs into the city proper, but I already wanted to kick them off.

The further I drove into the city, carefully following the directions my phone shouted at me, I was beginning to wonder if I’d programmed the address in correctly. From the research I’d done last night, PersOil’s main office was located on K Street, smack dab in the middle of lobbying country, but the address I’d been told to report to was further north, closer to Embassy Row. I had just passed the Naval Observatory when the navigation app told me I was less than a quarter mile to my destination. When I turned down a narrow, heavily wooded street, I knew without a doubt that I wasn’t headed for any sort of office building.

Instead, I found myself outside the gates of a massive manor, one that I never imagined was in the middle of a city less than seventy square miles large. From what I could see, the house sat on at least a couple acres of land, but every inch of it appeared to be surrounded by an eight-foot fence, barbed wire curling along the top. I wasn’t sure if it was there to keep people out of the gray stone building that loomed behind it, or if it was meant to keep them in. Either way, the sight had my stomach in knots.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this nervous before an interview. I’d been through enough in the last year that I was practically an old pro, but this felt different. If they were looking to intimidate at least one of their potential candidates, they had certainly succeeded.

Swallowing hard, I edged to a stop in front of the intricately designed wrought iron gates, rolling down my window and reaching out to press a button for the intercom on the panel beside it. There was a strong possibility that I was in the wrong place. Maybe some nice person inside would laugh and tell me this mix up happened all the time, that GPS systems were always confusing this address with the one I was meant to go to.

But the person who answered didn’t turn me away when I told them what I was here for, and soon the gates were slowly swinging open, beckoning me down the drive.

Well, here goes nothing.

After slowly pulling inside, I squeezed my clunker into a spot behind several expensive vehicles, quickly throwing it into park and cutting the engine. I knew without even having to look that both me and my car were out of place here, but I didn’t have time to dwell on that. The interview was scheduled to start soon, so I needed to figure out where I was supposed to go as quickly as possible, nerves be damned.

Drawing in a deep breath, I grabbed my purse from the passenger’s seat and wrenched myself out of the car. There were a few people milling around the wide front steps, but none of them spared me a glance as I passed by. I had to move aside to let two men carrying what looked to be an antique settee through the massive front doors, but once they were out I finally dared to step inside.

It took a moment before my eyes adjusted to the lower light of the foyer, lips parting in awe as I took in the splendor around me. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been this.

If I’d thought the manor had been impressive from the outside, the interior put that all to shame. Ornately carved dark wood molding framed the ceiling of the two-story foyer, beautifully outlining the gold inlaid patterns above, and I had to crane my neck to see past the massive chandelier that hung in the middle of it all. Had it been any bigger, I wasn’t sure it would have fit in the room.

Directly across from me—although still at least fifteen feet away—was the base of a sweeping double staircase, each side leading up to a landing on the second floor where light poured in from several expansive windows. I could see two halls branching off from either side upstairs, likely leading to separate wings of the house, just as it appeared to do down here on the main floor as well.

But no matter where I looked, there was nothing but the kind of opulence I’d only seen in movies. Whoever lived or worked here was clearly rolling in more than just a little dough.

I couldn’t help but stand there and admire it all until someone bumped my shoulder as they passed by, reminding me that I was still blocking the front door. Picking my jaw back up, I shuffled out of the way and glanced around for someone who looked like they could help me.

With all the people coming in and out, it took a moment to spot a woman by the base of one of the staircases with a clipboard in her hands, currently giving instructions to a team of movers. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a sleek bun and the gleam in her dark eyes had me hesitant to approach her, worried that if I said the wrong thing she might squish me under one of her designer pumps. Even though she couldn’t have been more than a few years older than me, I had no doubt that she was in charge around here.

“Um, hi,” I said as I approached, trying not to shrink away when her gaze landed on me. “I’m here for—”

Before I could finish the sentence, she held up a finger to stop me, turning her head slightly so I could see the earpiece she was wearing, tapping it once in case I was blind enough to miss it. I smiled awkwardly as I waited for her to finish listening to whatever was being said, but when she was done I found myself on the receiving end of something far brighter.

“Hi, yeah, sorry about that, things are a little crazy at the moment,” she apologized, her smile helping a little of the tension leave my shoulders. “Let me guess, you’re here to interview for the assistant position?”

I nodded.

“Great, hook a left out of the foyer, go down the hall, make a right, and then have a seat with the others. Good luck.”

I was sure she’d wished everyone else who’d shown up for the interview the same thing, but it was still encouraging to hear. After murmuring a quick thanks, I followed her directions out of the foyer and down the hall, taking in the dark wood paneling and amazingly high ceilings as I went.

My stomach twisted tighter with each corner I rounded, finally coming upon four other people sitting in chairs that lined the hall. I took the only empty one and settled in to wait my turn, trying hard not to puke on the beautiful floors.

As time ticked by, I watched as my fellow interviewees went into the room with their heads held high and exited as if they’d been defeated in battle.

Then it was my turn.

I sucked in a few deep breaths as I stepped towards the room, the hallway seeming to narrow the closer I got to the door. By the time I reached the threshold, I wanted nothing more than to turn and run, but I forced myself inside.

There were two chairs positioned across from each other in the small home office, built-in bookcases lining the wall to the left, while French doors that exited out onto a patio were straight ahead. A woman was already sitting in one of the chairs, obviously the interviewer if the stack of résumés in her lap meant anything. But there was an older man in the room too. He was sitting behind the antique mahogany desk off to the right, arms crossed over his barrel chest as he frowned at me.

Oh my God, that’s the CEO. That’s Mahmoud Rostami!

I recognized him from his picture on the PersOil website, although in that one he had at least managed a grimace, as compared to the openly hostile look I was getting now. No wonder everyone else had run out of here as if they’d shit their pants; I’d only been in here for two seconds and I was regretting my decision not to run.

Somehow, instead of turning and booking it, I closed the door behind me and held out a hand for the interviewer to shake.

“Rose Thompson,” I greeted, making sure my grip was strong but not too tight. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The woman’s smile was polite but nowhere close to friendly. “I’m Margaret, head of HR.” She dropped my hand and motioned to the chair across from her. “Please, have a seat.”

I had been planning to greet the CEO next, but she was still insistently pointing. Not to mention Mr. Rostami hadn’t moved an inch, completely out of reach unless I wanted to awkwardly lean across the desk to shake his hand.

So I took a seat as I was told, demurely crossing my ankles and placing my hands in my lap as I pasted on my well-practiced interview smile. Hopefully they couldn’t tell that I was sweating profusely and wondering why the hell the CEO himself would be sitting in on a first-round interview. I mean, it made sense that he’d have a say in who would be hired, considering they’d be working directly for him, but I couldn’t deny that I’d been thrown off my game by the move.

“Just to confirm, Rose Thompson is your full legal name, correct?” Margaret asked, drawing my attention away from Mr. Rostami. “We need it in order to run a background check.”

A background check? They hadn’t even asked me a single real question yet.

“Um, no, actually, it’s not,” I answered, trying not to squirm in my seat. “It’s Golshan Thompson, actually.”

Upon seeing her raised eyebrows, I went on to spell it, although I should have known she wouldn’t have gotten it on her own. Most people didn’t. Hell, most people didn’t even know how to say it properly, especially the first time. Even my own father had struggled with its soft vowels at first, but I suppose that’s what he got for insisting my mother name me. He had, however, gotten to pick my nickname of Rose, which was essentially a shortened translation of what it meant.

“It’s Persian.”

Startled, I glanced up to find Mr. Rostami staring at me once again, but this time his frown had lifted. “I’m sorry?”

“Your name,” he elaborated as he slowly unfolded his arms, leaning forward towards the desk. “It’s Persian.”

“Oh, um, yeah.” I cleared my throat, wanting to kick myself for sounding so casual, but his statement had surprised me. “I mean, yes, it is.”

“Are you?”

Lost, I hesitated before asking, “Am I what?”

“Are you Persian?” he clarified, speaking slowly to me like I was an absolute idiot.

At that point, I was inclined to agree with him, but at least now I understood where the conversation was going. “I am, yes. On my mother’s side, at least.”

“What part of Iran?”

Finally, a question I could answer without making a fool of myself. “Mashhad.”

The CEO seemed pleased with that response, though he did nothing more than hum in approval as he leaned back again, apparently out of things to ask me.

I knew Mr. Rostami himself was Persian—not to mention PersOil had originally been an Iran-based company. That had changed in the early 1980s following the Islamic Revolution when oil production had become nationalized. But despite being pushed out of business in its home country, PersOil had opened refineries in over twenty other countries, quickly breaking into the top ten oil companies in the world. When I’d checked last night, they were currently sitting in the number two spot in terms of revenue, right behind Saudi Aramco.

It hadn’t occurred to me that my own heritage might be an advantage in this situation, that Mr. Rostami might favor hiring someone from the same ethnic background as him. I was pretty sure that counted as discrimination in some form or another, but honestly, the legality of it all was the least of my worries at the moment. If my Persian background, as disconnected as I was from it, would help me land this job, I wasn’t going to deny that half of me.

Gotta do what you gotta do, I guess. Even if it is a little shady.

As Margaret realized her boss was done posing questions, she flashed me yet another tight smile and reshuffled the papers on her lap. “Let’s get started then.”

***

The rest of the interview carried on as normal.

Margaret asked the questions I’d been expecting and there were no additional interruptions from the CEO himself. Despite the weirdness at the beginning, I had to admit that—even though it had caught me by surprise—it had made the rest of the process seem like a breeze. Nothing the woman could have asked me would have been as weird as that, after all.

“Great, we’ll be in touch,” Margaret said, wrapping things up as she stood, offering me her hand once more.

I smiled as we shook, confident in how things had gone. But I’d felt that way many times before and still not gotten the job, so I was doing my best to keep my excitement and any sort of expectations in check. I’d learned it was best to not get my hopes up.

Thanking both the interviewer and the CEO for their time, I gathered my purse from the floor and headed for the exit. However, as I put my hand to the doorknob, the sound of Mr. Rostami’s gruff voice had me looking back over my shoulder.

“Return here on Monday, eight AM.”

I paused, hand dropping away from the door as I turned to him. “Excuse me?”

Unsurprisingly, the man was back to staring at me like I was an absolute imbecile. “It means you’re hired, Miss Thompson.”

While I was stunned into silence, Margaret was spluttering, clearly not having expected this move.

“But, sir, we still have ten other candidates to interview,” she pointed out, nervously glancing between me and her boss. “And some of them are far more qualified for the position.”

Even though his next words were directed at the woman, Mr. Rostami didn’t look away from me. “I don’t care. You will hire this one.”

Her lips parted as if to say something else, but she clamped them shut and nodded instead, clutching the stack of papers to her chest.

It was only as she lost her voice that I managed to find mine, gratitude bubbling up and out before I could regulate it.

“Thank you so much,” I blurted. “I’m absolutely honored to be working for you, Mr. Rostami. I promise to do my absolute best as your assistant.”

For the first time since I’d met him, Mr. Rostami smiled, lips pulling back to reveal yellow tinged teeth. There was something a little menacing about seeing him grin, but I was too excited over landing my very first grown-up job to pay it much notice.

“My assistant?” he laughed, and the mocking sound of it had my buzz waning.

I was sure my confusion showed on my face, but he didn’t elaborate. No, he just kept laughing, which left me nervously glancing towards Margaret for more information.

She cleared her throat and took a step closer to me. “The position is for the personal assistant of our new CEO, actually. Mr. Rostami is our interim CEO and will be stepping down in a few weeks’ time.”

“Oh.” Doubt was beginning to seep into my chest now. There had been no mention in the job listing of this being for their new CEO, leaving me to assume I’d be working for Mr. Rostami, who’d been in the position for the last ten years. Apparently, that was changing. “Okay. May I ask who I’ll be working for then?”

She wet her lips, preparing to answer, but it was Mr. Rostami who spoke.

“The rightful heir to this company,” he said. “Khalid Bakhtiar.”