The waiting room felt suspended in time, a limbo of silence broken only by the occasional tick of my pen or the rustle of pages I was flipping through. I was sitting in a corner, the white envelope on my lap, my gaze alternating between the documents and the solid wood door in front of me.

The last woman had been in there forever. Fifty minutes had already passed. The other interviews had lasted twenty, twenty-five at most.

Why is it taking so long? I wondered, tapping my pen on the envelope with growing nervousness. Maybe they're grilling her to the max, digging into every detail. Or perhaps she has a case like mine—"complicated," full of hidden traps. Or one even worse? The thought tightened my stomach. If hers was harder, what did that mean for me? That mine was easy... or that I was next to be slaughtered?

To distract myself, I looked out the glass wall. The view of Manhattan was breathtaking: skyscrapers vanishing into the horizon, Central Park a green carpet far below. I wonder what Amanda's doing right now. I ruined her morning, leaving her out there waiting like a bodyguard. I'll make it up to her—maybe dinner out, a movie, whatever she wants. She deserves it.

Finally, I heard the door open. The woman came out: about twenty-nine, wavy chestnut hair framing her oval face softly, wearing a fitted red dress that screamed "good luck." She must have chosen that red on purpose, for a positive sign. She left with a calm smile.

A female voice called me from the doorway of one of the rooms. "Madison Reed?"

It was a woman in her forties with short blonde hair and a gray suit.

"Here I am," I replied, standing with a movement I hoped looked natural. In the meantime, I quickly tucked the envelope with the documents under my arm and smoothed my skirt suit with my free hand—a gesture more to calm my nerves than out of necessity.

Madison Reed. I wasn't holding up under this name anymore, and it had only been half a day, but it was my lifeline for this job, the only thing keeping me afloat in this madness.

"Please come in," she said with a smile, holding the door open for me.

I entered a conference room with glass walls on one side—offering an even more spectacular view—and a large oval table in the center. Three people were seated: Mr. Marcus, whom I recognized; a woman in her fifties with short gray hair and an authoritative, progressive air; and an elegant woman around sixty-eight, Chanel suit, pearls around her neck, perfect blonde hair.

The third one froze my blood.

Eleanor Harrington? What is she doing here?

I'd read about her in articles and firm profiles: wife of the senior founder, mother of a certain Andrew Harrington, one of the youngest and most powerful partners. I hadn't dwelled on him much, actually. The Harrington family was one of those old-school New York dynasties, always in the papers for charity events or billion-dollar mergers, but I'd never dug deeper. To me, they were just "the Harringtons"—a prestigious name, a symbol of untouchable power.

And now here she was, in the flesh, judging me.

I remembered my old boss in Brooklyn calling her "a real bitch": ambitious, manipulative, old school. I felt ice in my veins: being judged by her was the last thing I needed. Her especially, who represented the entire conservative world.

"Hello everyone," I said, trying to sound confident as I sat in the indicated spot.

The woman who had called me closed the door behind her and sat down, completing the quartet.

Eleanor picked up my resume from the desk with a slow, almost ceremonial gesture, as if handling a precious object to be weighed gram by gram. She flipped through it page by page, her manicured nails scraping lightly on the paper, her eyes darting over every line with an expression of detached superiority—the typical gaze of someone used to judging and always finding something wrong.

"Madison Reed, twenty-five years old," she began with that honeyed tone hiding sharp thorns. "Law degree from New York University with excellent grades—congratulations, my dear, not everyone achieves that—and a short master's at Columbia. You've worked in two smaller firms in Brooklyn. I wonder... why these frequent changes? Did the first one perhaps fire you, or did you simply not fit in with the environment?"

The words dripped sweet, but every syllable was a calculated jab, a way to make me feel small, unstable, inadequate. The tone was that of a rich aunt smiling while dismantling you piece by piece.

Be careful how you answer, girl. Wow, this woman is a real bitch, one of those who poison you with a plastered smile. I'd love to tell her, heart in hand, to get a good relaxing fuck or, better yet, to mind her own business. But I couldn't. Not here, not now. Madison Reed had to be perfect, composed, impeccable.

I took a deep breath, pushing down the instinct to snap back, and sketched a serene smile—the one Amanda had made me practice in the mirror for hours.

"Thank you for the compliments on my grades, Mrs. Harrington," I replied with a calm, firm voice. "Regarding the office changes, I've always chosen opportunities that allowed me to grow and face more challenging tasks. The first gave me a solid foundation, but I felt I needed greater complexity. The second offered direct corporate experience."

I paused briefly, looking Eleanor straight in the eyes—without open challenge, but with confidence.

Eleanor tilted her head slightly, feigning maternal interest, but her eyes were cold as ice. "Tell me, what drove you to apply here with us, Miss Reed?" she asked in that honeyed voice, as if offering tea. "Be careful how you answer, dear—you know, some motivations are... more appropriate than others. I wouldn't want it to be just for the prestige of the name, or for... less noble reasons."

She paused dramatically, then with that fake smile that didn't reach her eyes, added: "After all, in a firm like ours, we look for people with solid values. Family, stability... things that truly matter, don't you think?"

I smiled again, this time with a touch of determination I couldn't fully hide.

"I'm here because Harrington, Locke & Partners represents the excellence I've always sought," I said with a clear, passionate voice. "Not for a prestigious name to put on my resume, but for the reputation of handling cases that change the legal landscape, mergers that redefine markets, disputes that set precedents. I want to contribute with my dedication, my ability to see beyond the obvious, and my passion for law that is just and innovative. And I believe this firm, with its history and team, is the place where I can give my best... and learn from those who have already proven to be the best."

Silence.

Eleanor pursed her lips—point to me, she hadn't expected such a direct and composed response. Marcus smiled openly, the two women nodded with clear approval.

Eleanor, still holding my resume, cleared her throat, breaking the tension with her honeyed tone. "Well, we can begin with the questions."

The woman who had brought me in started first. "Miss Reed, tell us about your experience and why you chose corporate law."

I answered calmly, with examples from my "inflated" resume but based on truth—cases I'd actually followed, just without credit.

Marcus leaned forward slightly, adjusting his glasses with a quick gesture, and moved to technical questions on the case from the white envelope. I answered precisely, delving into the tax risk and proposing my creative strategy. He nodded, impressed, taking notes.

In the room, they exchanged surprised, positive glances. I was good—in this case, "good"—I knew it, and Madison was working perfectly.

The woman with short gray hair opened her mouth to ask her question, but she didn't get the chance.

The door behind me opened abruptly.

Everyone looked toward the entrance, silence falling suddenly in the room.

"Sorry for the delay," said a low, familiar voice that pierced me like a blade. "My alarm didn't go off this morning."

I turned slowly, my heart pounding in my ears.

Fuck.

Standing in the doorway, tall, with a sculpted body straining the dark gray suit in a criminal way, ginger hair damp—probably just washed—and a freshly shaved face. But those green eyes... identical to the ones from the night before.

My breath caught in my throat.

That guy smiled politely as he adjusted his tie, entering and closing the door with a definitive click.

Eleanor spoke first, with that affected, venomous tone that didn't hide her maternal irritation. "Finally, my son deigns to come to work."

My eyes widened, feeling the world tilt for a second.

Son? He's Andrew Harrington?

Eleanor continued, ignoring the rest of the room as if we were just extras in one of her family scenes. "I had to come preside in your place."

Andrew rolled his eyes—a quick, irritated gesture, but without a hint of embarrassment, as if those maternal jabs were part of his daily life forever. He walked around the table with determined steps, leaned down, and kissed his mother on the forehead: an automatic, almost mechanical gesture, devoid of real affection, more a ritual to close the matter than a sign of tenderness.

"Come on, Mother," he said with a controlled voice, a veil of exasperation that only someone who knew him well would catch. "I was out very late last night."

"I hope it was worth it, at least, my son," she retorted immediately, with that fake smile plastered on her face. The voice was honeyed, but every word seemed calculated to sting, to remind everyone who really ran the family.

Eleanor went on, ignoring the rest of the room as if we were mere spectators in one of her private performances. "You're at the right age to have a wife... and maybe make me a grandmother. Don't you think it's time to settle down?"

The silence in the room grew even heavier. I felt my stomach twist, not just from the panic of having the bathroom guy in front of me, but from that toxic family scene playing out before my eyes. Andrew, however, didn't flinch. He sat next to Marcus with fluid movements, taking a chair without the slightest sign of discomfort, as if his mother hadn't just fired another jab.

"Mother, please," he cut in, closing the topic without appeal.

Marcus handed him the document for the case they'd assigned me. Andrew took it, flipping through with nonchalance as he sat. "Where did we get to?" he asked, as if the family scene had never happened.

Marcus briefly summarized my responses with a hint of admiration for how I'd handled the previous questions.

Andrew smiled—a polite, controlled smile, perfect lawyer—but his green eyes lingered on me a second too long. Too intense, too familiar. A shiver ran down my spine, and I felt heat rise to my cheeks under the foundation.

"I know these practices very well," he said nonchalantly.

He noticed my expression—probably I was pale as a ghost—and arched an eyebrow. "Are you feeling okay, Miss Reed?"

Everyone looked at me. The woman with short gray hair added, concerned: "If you'd like to freshen up, we have water right there." Pointing to a table near the glass window.

"Thank you," I stammered, my throat truly dry, almost closed. "I have a bit of dry throat."

I stood, legs wobbly like jelly, and headed to the side table with the pitcher and clear plastic glasses. My hands trembled as I poured water—a light tremor, but enough to make the glass clink against the pitcher.

I can't believe it. Life is really messing with me.

Him. Here. The bathroom guy, the platinum blond who'd fucked me until I saw stars, is Andrew Harrington. The partner. The son of this viper.

My heart pounded so hard I feared they could all hear it. Confusion, pure panic, and a treacherous heat rising inside me just thinking back to the night before.

It couldn't be. Or could it?

The eyes were identical, that low, velvety voice too—it had pierced me the same way, like an electric shock pulling me straight back to that night. But the hair... natural ginger, impeccable, not the dyed platinum and a bit messy from that evening. And the freshly shaved face, smooth as silk, no trace of the light beard I remembered—a minor difference, almost imperceptible, but enough to make me doubt for a second.

What if he'd dyed his hair on purpose to disguise himself that night? Or if he had a twin brother?

No, I shook my head mentally. The Harringtons had only one son—I remembered reading that detail before.

Then, like a flash, a memory hit me straight in the stomach: while we were kissing, his hands gripping my hips, I'd glimpsed that small dark mole on his left earlobe, almost hidden by the hair.

I have to see if he has it.