I stepped into the building's lobby with legs that wouldn't stop trembling, my bag clutched to my side like a lifeline. The entrance was exactly as I'd both imagined and dreaded: polished marble floors reflecting the cold light from the chandeliers, glass walls offering glimpses of people in tailored suits and dresses coming and going.

There were about a dozen women scattered around: some seated on designer armchairs, others standing near the reception desk, all radiating an aura of confidence that made me feel even more out of place. They exuded competence in every gesture—focused gazes, impeccable posture—the kind of women who seemed born for environments like this, ready to handle million-dollar cases without blinking.

One of them, in her thirties, with curly chestnut hair framing her oval face softly and a smile that was almost dazzling, noticed me and approached with a confident step. "Are you here for the interview too?"

I nodded, trying to modulate my voice into the most feminine tone possible. "Yes." My heart was pounding.

"A real stroke of luck," she said, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial tone. "A position in a firm like this... even if only one of us gets chosen. Sometimes it feels like a beauty pageant."

I laughed softly, more out of nerves than anything else. In fact, this was the first time a job interview made me feel so... exposed. As if proving competence wasn't enough—we had to pass an unwritten beauty test too. And I, who was usually invisible in my Brooklyn office, now found myself competing in an arena where appearance mattered as much as brains.

"I should speak with the secretary," I said, glancing around a bit uncertainly.

She smiled understandingly. "Oh, she's that girl over there," she indicated with a discreet nod. "She's making herself a coffee at the machine."

I looked in the direction she pointed: a young Asian woman with glasses in a thin gold metal frame and hair pulled back in a neat low ponytail. "Thank you so much."

"Good luck," she said with a sincere smile before walking away.

I headed toward her, hands sweaty despite the chill. "Hello," I greeted with the calmest voice I could muster. "My name is Madison Reed. I'm here for the interview."

The secretary—her badge read Rebecca Chen—looked up and smiled. "Welcome, Miss Reed. Please follow me. We need to sign some preliminary documents and give you something."

I followed her down a hallway, noticing the other candidates: each holding an identical white envelope. Some already opened, with papers peeking out. What the hell are those envelopes? I wondered. For an interview? I didn't remember anything like that in standard job postings—usually it was just questions, resumes, small talk. I felt more and more like a fish out of water, out of place, as if everyone around knew a secret I'd completely missed, and I was the only one groping in the dark.

We entered a small office with transparent walls—all glass, modern, impersonal. The desk was impeccably organized: computer, printer, a couple of fake plants, colored folders perfectly aligned. Rebecca sat down and gestured to the chair opposite her.

She clicked a key and the screen lit up. "Could you repeat your name for me, please?"

"Madison Reed."

She typed quickly, frowning. "Strange... I don't see your application email."

Panic gripped my stomach. "Are you sure? Could you check again?"

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

Rebecca shook her head. "I'm sorry, there's no Madison Reed here. Are you sure you sent the resume 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 understandingly. "You're not the first today, don't worry. But without the resume, I can't let you proceed to the interview. You can go home and try sending it again, but time is running out..."

Fuck, the world collapsing on me again. Is it possible nothing ever goes right for me? I dressed as a woman, spent hours preparing, and now I risk not even getting the interview because of a fucking resume?

Maybe it's fate. Maybe I'm meant to stay in my Brooklyn office, invisible forever. Maybe the universe is telling me to give up.

Rebecca looked at me worriedly. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," I lied, voice a bit broken.

Just 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, turning from the monitor with a surprised smile. "Do you need something?"

"Yes, I'd need a stack of blank sheets if you have any."

Then he looked at me. "And who are you?"

"Miss Madison Reed," Rebecca answered for me.

"Hello," I greeted, 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, haven't you given her the envelope yet?"

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

Marcus walked around the desk and stood next to her. "Wait a second, let me see."

What does he want to do? I wondered, following his every move with my eyes.

I heard two mouse clicks. "Here it is."

I blinked, surprised. "What?"

Rebecca confirmed: "Oh, it's true. How silly of me."

Marcus shrugged. "This computer usually acts up, and refreshing the page a couple of times makes everything appear. I'll ask to have it replaced anyway."

I smiled, relieved to my bones. Damn shitty computer, I cursed inwardly, but kept a smile plastered on my face.

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

"Thank you," I replied, taking it.

"Relax, it's not a bomb," he joked with a kind smile.

I laughed, opening the envelope. Inside were legal documents: dense pages of acts, contracts, notes on a corporate acquisition case.

"These are..."

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

It all clicked in an instant: in the posting, besides the female preference and resume, there was that note repeating his words almost verbatim. It sounded like an ad slogan. But fine. I'll show you what I'm worth.

Rebecca, meanwhile, had finished printing. She handed me a single sheet with the firm logo at the top. "Before you go, you need to sign this candidacy declaration and data processing consent. It's standard for all interviews."

I took it, scanning it quickly. It was a formal form: confirmation of providing truthful information, authorization to verify background, privacy consent for personal data. Nothing strange... except I was about to sign with a fake name, on documents that, if discovered, could land me in a sea of legal trouble.

I'm getting myself in trouble, I can feel it, I thought, heart racing again. Fraud, false identity, reverse discrimination... all for an interview. But if I don't sign now, it's over. And I'm not turning back.

I took the pen Rebecca offered, traced an elegant signature—Madison Reed—.

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

As I left the office, my heart was still pounding hard in my chest, but a new determination filled 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 settled in a corner, as far as possible from the other candidates—a dozen women scattered here and there, all immersed in their documents or whispering among themselves.

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, acquired by a major tech company in the healthcare sector.

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

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

This is a tough one, I thought, flipping through the pages. But I didn't give up. It was exactly the kind of case that made my eyes light up in college: complicated, full of hidden traps, where one wrong detail could cost millions. I felt alive, for the first time in too long—not the invisible secretary from Brooklyn, but a real lawyer, with something to prove.

I started reading carefully, pen in hand (which I grabbed from my bag). The other candidates around me did the same: some annotating furiously, others rereading with focused expressions. Every now and then I glanced up: two women nearby were whispering, comparing notes. "Mine has an IP dilution issue," one said. "Yours?"

The other shook her head. "Antitrust, I think. Non-compete clause too broad."

I smiled to myself. This firm was clever: giving different cases to different candidates (or so it seemed) prevented anyone from copying or cheating. Genius. And cruel.

Just then, a woman in her forties came out of one of the side rooms—classic solid wood door, closed, with a discreet plaque next to it. She looked tired but satisfied. Immediately three curious candidates approached her: "How did it go? How many questions? Did they ask about the case?"

She smiled vaguely. "Normal. Analysis and recommendations."

I thought back to college, those exam rooms where the wait was worse than the test itself. The student coming out, pale or euphoric, and the others crowding around like vultures: "What did they ask? Was it hard? Did they do question two?"

It was the same here, just with high heels and suits. It gave me a strange feeling: nostalgia mixed with terror. There I was Matthias, here I had to be Madison. And if I messed up? If they discovered me? But no, I couldn't allow it. Not now, not after all this.

I went back to the documents.

The main problem jumped out after a few pages: the founders' stock options in NeuroLink weren't qualified as Incentive Stock Options (ISO) under Section 422 of the Internal Revenue Code. That meant, at closing, the acquirer (HealthAI) would inherit a huge tax liability—treatment as ordinary income instead of capital gains, 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 of an old 2022 options plan that wasn't compliant, perhaps due to an initial drafting error. If not corrected, post-closing it could trigger a domino effect: IRS audit, shareholder class action, even deal rescission.

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

I thought: creativity needed here. Not just standard indemnity.

I jotted quickly:

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

Insert dedicated escrow (10-15% of price) to cover potential tax hit.

Structured earn-out: part of payment post-closing 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 acquirer.

I smiled to myself. This is my territory.

I looked up: the other candidates were being called one by one. They entered one of the rooms with their envelope in hand, solid wood doors closing behind them. Then they came out, some looking disappointed, others neutral, a few with forced smiles.

My heart raced faster. Soon it would be my turn.