I entered the building lobby with legs that wouldn't stop shaking, my bag clutched at my side like a lifeline. The entrance was exactly as I'd imagined and feared: polished marble floors reflecting the cold lights of chandeliers, glass walls offering glimpses of people in designer suits and outfits coming and going.

There were about ten women scattered around: some seated on designer armchairs, others standing near the reception, all exuding an aura of confidence that made me feel even more out of place. They radiated competence in every gesture, focused gazes, impeccable postures—the kind of women who seemed born for environments like this, ready to handle multimillion-dollar cases without batting an eye.

One of them, in her thirties, with curly brown hair softly framing her oval face and a nearly dazzling smile, noticed me and approached with a confident step.

"You here for the interview too?"

I nodded, trying to modulate my voice as femininely as possible.

"Yes."

"Real lucky break." She said, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial tone. "A spot in a firm like this… even if only one of us gets picked. Sometimes it feels like a beauty pageant."

I laughed nervously. Actually, it's the first time for a job interview you have to feel so… exposed. As if proving competence wasn't enough, we had to pass an unwritten aesthetic exam too. And me, who was usually invisible in my Brooklyn firm, now found myself competing in an arena where appearance counted as much as brains.

"I should talk to the secretary," I said, looking around a bit uncertain.

"Oh, that's the girl over there," she pointed with a discreet nod. "She's getting coffee from the machine."

I looked in the indicated direction: A young Asian woman with thin gold metal-framed glasses and hair pulled into a neat low ponytail.

"Thanks a lot."

"Good luck." She said with a smile before walking away.

I headed toward the secretary, hands sweaty despite the chill.

"Hello."

I greeted her with the calmest voice I could muster.

"My name is Madison Reed. I'm here for the interview."

The secretary, her badge said Rebecca Chen, looked up and smiled. "Welcome, Miss Reed. Follow me, please. We need to sign some preliminary documents and give you something."

I followed her down the hallway, heels clicking uncertainly on the shiny floor.

I saw the other candidates walking with a confidence that twisted my stomach. Each clutched an identical white envelope, sealed or half-open. Some had already torn the flap: crisp papers peeking out, edges slightly creased, like they'd passed through too many nervous hands.

What the hell are those envelopes?

The thought hit me like a cold draft. I didn't remember anything like that in the ad. Usually it was the same routine: printed résumé, a couple lines of introduction, standard questions, forced handshakes, and goodbye. Here instead… it seemed like everyone knew something already.

I felt more and more like an outsider, a fish flopping on a dry tile while the others swam calmly. Out of place, awkward in the suit that pulled just a bit, with lipstick constantly reminding me I was playing a part.

Around me, they proceeded silently, sure, as if that secret, whatever it was, had already been shared with everyone but me. And I kept groping in the dark, heart beating a little too fast, wondering if I was about to fall into a trap I hadn't even seen coming.

We entered a small office with transparent walls, all glass, modern, impersonal. The desk was ordered to the millimeter: computer, printer, a couple fake plants, colored folders aligned. Rebecca sat and pointed to the chair across.

She clicked a key and the screen woke up.

"Can you repeat your name, please?"

"Madison Reed."

She typed quickly, frowning.

"Strange… I don't see your application email."

Panic gripped my stomach.

"You sure? Can you check better?"

I immediately wondered if I'd mistyped the email or if it ended up in spam. Shit, why didn't I bring a paper copy of the résumé? What an idiot. If I fail over something this stupid, after all this…

Rebecca scrolled again. "I'm sorry, there's no Madison Reed here. Are you sure you sent it to the right address?"

"I can send it now from my phone." I said, opening my bag with trembling hands.

But as I rummaged… nothing. The phone wasn't there.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Did I leave it at home?

I looked at Rebecca with a forced smile.

"Damn, I'm so scatterbrained today. I forgot my phone at home."

She sighed sympathetically.

"You're not the first today, don't worry. But without the résumé I can't let you proceed to the interview. You can go home and try resending, but time's running out…"

Fuck, again the world crashing down on me. Possible I can't get one thing right? I dressed as a woman, spent hours prepping, and now I risk not even doing the interview over a fucking résumé?

Maybe it's fate.

Maybe I have to stay in my Brooklyn firm, invisible forever.

Maybe the universe is telling me to give up.

Rebecca looked at me worried.

"You okay?"

"Yes." I lied.

Right then, the door behind me opened.

A man entered: tall, sturdy build, black hair, elegant glasses. He had a serious but kind air.

"Oh, Marcus." Rebecca said, looking away from the monitor with a surprised smile. "Need something?"

"Yeah, I need a stack of blank paper, if you have any."

Then he looked at me.

"And who is she?"

"Miss Madison Reed." Rebecca answered for me.

"Hello."

I greeted him, standing and shaking his hand. His grip was firm, warm. Mine was sweaty as hell.

"Sorry." I stammered, discreetly wiping it on my skirt.

Marcus smiled. "Don't worry." Then he noticed something. "Rebecca, you haven't given her the envelope yet?"

She hesitated.

"I'm sorry, Marcus, I can't let her proceed, I don't see her résumé in the email. She says she sent it, but there's no trace here… and she forgot her phone to resend it right away."

Marcus went around the desk and stood next to her.

"Hold on, let me see."

What does he want to do?

I couldn't take my eyes off him. Every movement seemed deliberate: hand sliding to the mouse, steady wrist, the click…

Two clicks.

Sharp.

"There it is."

I blinked, surprised.

"What?"

Rebecca confirmed: "Oh, right. How silly."

Marcus shrugged.

"This computer acts up sometimes, and to make it work you just need two page refreshes to show everything. I'll ask to have it replaced anyway."

"What luck." I said smiling.

Inside, though, I was boiling.

Fucking shitty computer.

I kept it there, plastered on my face, that cover-girl smile, while my heart still pounded from the close call. Relieved, yes. But with a fierce urge to kick that damn monitor.

While Rebecca printed my résumé, Marcus handed me a white envelope. "This is for you."

"Thanks." I replied, taking it.

"Relax, it's not a bomb."

He said it with a kind smile, like he wanted to lighten everything.

I smiled too, a bit relieved, and opened the envelope with a quick gesture. The paper gave with a dry rustle.

Inside were legal documents: pages dense with acts, notes on a corporate acquisition, terms like "penalty clauses," "enterprise value," "warranties" running one after another like an impenetrable wall of text.

"These are…"

"Client documents." Marcus explained. "Dated, naturally. We want to see how you handle practical analysis, we're looking for talent that shows excellence not just on paper, but in the ability to tackle real cases with precision, insight, and creativity."

In a flash, it all connected.

The ad had exactly that clause, female preference, impeccable résumé, and those words almost identical to his, repeated like an ad slogan.

It wasn't random.

It was written in black and white, and I'd ignored it, or maybe pretended not to understand it.

But fine.

I'll show you what I'm worth.

Rebecca, meanwhile, had finished printing a document.

She came back to me with a single sheet, the firm logo at the top standing out sharp on the immaculate white. She handed it to me with a gentle gesture.

"Before you go, you need to sign this application declaration and consent to processing your data. It's standard for all interviews."

I took it between my fingers, the paper cool, slightly rough under my fingertips, and gave it a quick read, scanning the lines with my eyes.

Formal form, standard phrases: confirmation of truthfulness of provided information, authorization for background checks, privacy consent for personal data. Nothing anomalous, nothing suspicious… except I was about to sign with a name that wasn't mine.

A fake name on letterhead, on official documents. If it ever came out, a cross-check, it'd be a mess: document fraud, false identity, maybe even reverse discrimination charges. A sea of legal troubles I could already feel pressing against my temples.

I'm going to get in trouble. I feel it.

My heart raced again, a dull drum filling my ears. All for an interview. All to not go back with my tail between my legs.

But if I don't sign now, it's over here.

And I'm not going back.

I took the pen Rebecca offered, gripped it with fingers trembling just a bit, and traced the signature.

Elegant, like I'd done it a thousand times.

Madison Reed.

The black ink stroke stayed there, sharp on the paper, and for an instant it seemed more real than myself.

"Perfect!" She said, taking back the sheet. "Now you can go to the waiting room with the others. We'll call you in turn."

I stood, clutching the envelope with the documents in my hands.

"So… see you later." I said, with a smile I hoped sounded confident.

As I left the office, my heart still pounding hard in my chest, but a new determination filling me, warm, solid, almost euphoric. I headed to the waiting room at the end of the hallway, a bright open space with gray armchairs, low tables, and a breathtaking view of Manhattan. I sat in a corner, as far as possible from the other candidates.

The white envelope weighed on my crossed leg. I opened it again, pulling out the pages: a corporate acquisition case, an AI startup valued at four hundred million dollars, bought by a big tech firm in the sector.

I read the deal title: “Project Phoenix – Share Purchase Agreement between HealthAI Corp. and NeuroLink Inc.”

It seemed standard stuff: partial due diligence report, draft stock purchase agreement, disclosure schedules, and a tax summary on the startup founders' stock options.

This is a real headache.

But I didn't give up.

It was exactly the kind of case that made my eyes light up in college: intricate, littered with hidden traps, where a misinterpreted detail could make millions evaporate.

For the first time in forever I felt alive, not the one who goes unnoticed among desks, but a real lawyer, with something to prove, skin tingling with adrenaline.

I took the pen from my bag, the same one I used for noting appointments, and started reading carefully, line by line, underlining the critical points.

Around me the other candidates were doing the same: some scribbling furiously in the margins, others rereading with furrowed brows, totally focused. Every now and then I looked up: two women sitting close leaned toward each other, whispering intensely while comparing sheets.

"Mine has an IP dilution issue," one said.

"Yours?" The other shook her head. "Antitrust, I think. Clause too broad."

I smiled to myself.

This firm was clever: giving different cases to different candidates (or at least it seemed) avoided anyone copying or cheating.

Genius.

And cruel.

Right then the interview room door opened. A woman in her forties came out, looking tired but satisfied, shoulders a bit more relaxed.

Immediately three candidates approached her, curious like hawks:

"How'd it go? How many questions? Did they ask about the case?"

She smiled vaguely, almost evasive, with that weary gesture of someone who'd already said all they wanted.

"Normal. Analysis and recommendations."

Nothing more.

It reminded me instantly of college: exam rooms after the test, the gut-eating wait while the student came out, pale, sweaty, or with an idiot smile, and the others clustered around like vultures. "What did they ask? Was it hard? Did they do track two?"

Here it was identical.

Except instead of hoodies and backpacks there were high heels, tight suits, and lipsticks.

Same ritual, same hunger for clues.

It had a strange effect on me: bittersweet nostalgia mixed with a cold terror rising from my chest. There I was Matthias, no masks, no fear of being unmasked. Here I had to be Madison, Madison Reed, to the last breath.

And if I messed up a word? If they noticed the voice too low, the gesture too stiff, a detail out of place?

No.

I couldn't afford it.

Not now.

I went back to the documents.

The main problem jumped out after a few pages: the NeuroLink founders' stock options weren't qualified as Incentive Stock Options (ISO) under Section 422 of the Internal Revenue Code. It meant that at closing, the buyer (HealthAI) would inherit a huge tax liability, treatment as ordinary income instead of capital gain, with withholding obligations and potential IRS penalties.

Most would see just "stock options" and move on, or suggest generic indemnity.

But I dug deeper.

In the disclosure schedules, there was a hint at an old 2022 options plan that wasn't compliant, maybe from an initial drafting error. If not fixed, post-closing it could trigger a domino: IRS audit, shareholder class action, even deal rescission.

And the IP: the startup had exclusive licenses on a patented AI algorithm, but a weak change-of-control clause—if the buyer changed the board, the licensor could terminate.

This needs creativity. Not just standard indemnity.

I jotted quickly:

Strengthen representations & warranties on tax qualifications, with extended survival period.

Add dedicated escrow (10-15% of price) to cover potential tax hits.

Structured earn-out: part of post-closing payment tied to tax-free milestones.

For IP: Add side letter with licensor for change-of-control waiver.

It was more than a fix: it was a strategy that minimized risk and maximized value for the buyer.

I smiled to myself.

I looked up.

The other candidates were being called one after another.

Name after name, they stood with envelope clutched in hand, crossed the room in a few decisive steps, and vanished beyond the solid wood door. That soft thud when it closed behind them seemed to swallow every sound in the waiting room.

A couple minutes later the door reopened with a discreet click, almost hesitant.

They came out one after another, each carrying a different fragment of defeat or resignation.

Some looked crestfallen, shoulders hunched as if the weight of disappointment physically bore down on them, gaze lowered avoiding all contact, lost in some undefined spot on the floor. Others kept a neutral, impassive expression, their face a composed mask betrayed only by the slight quiver of lips or the way they clutched their bag too tight. Some tried a forced smile, too tense, too pulled at the corners, an attempt at dignity that cracked right after, revealing the underlying bitterness.

Every exit was an inexorable tick of the countdown.

My heart quickened with every door opening, a beat growing more insistent.

Soon it'd be my turn.