I was taking another sip of water, trying to loosen the knot gripping my throat like a vise.

When Eleanor broke the silence.

"My dear, even if you're the last, we don't have all day to wait. Shall we continue?"

That affected tone, loaded with false courtesy, like scolding a child late for tea.

"I'm sorry."

I replied right away, setting the glass on the table with a deliberate gesture, even though my hands still trembled slightly, a tremor that made the remaining water ripple inside.

She wasn't entirely wrong, technically.

But if I was reduced to that state, heart hammering in my chest like it wanted to break my ribs, short breath, cold sweat under my blouse, it was only her son's fault.

If Andrew had arrived even just a bit later that day or, better yet, if he hadn't come in right then, I'd be much calmer now.

I sat back down.

Eleanor cleared her throat.

"Let's pick up where we left off. Go ahead, Victoria."

The woman with short gray hair, Victoria, nodded and asked her question, one on leadership and time management under pressure. I answered calmly, or at least hoped so, but my eyes inevitably darted toward Andrew. Every time my gaze fell on him, a wave of panic twisted my stomach, while a forbidden heat slowly rose from below. The memory of that night still burned inside me, like a flame that wouldn't go out.

Then Andrew stepped in.

He leaned slightly over the table, green eyes fixed on me, like he was trying to place something.

"If I may," he said. "I'd like to ask you one last question."

"Go ahead." I swallowed.

"In the NeuroLink case," he continued, flipping through the document like he knew it by heart, and he probably did. "Between strengthening representations with dedicated escrow or opting for an earn-out tied to tax-exempt, which do you think is more suitable to mitigate overall risk for the buyer, considering AI sector volatility too?"

The question struck like a blade, nothing random.

It was a real test.

And I was ready.

It was my moment.

I took a deep breath, to push down the panic invading my body.

I was about to answer, words already formed on my tongue, ready to come out calm and composed, when my gaze slid to his left ear.

The ginger hair had shifted with the head movement as he leaned slightly over the papers in front of him.

There.

Small, dark, almost hidden under the lobe, a round, distinct mole, identical to the one I'd glimpsed that night, when his platinum hair had fallen over his temple and his lips were pressed to mine.

"The mole!" I said out loud, without realizing.

Andrew arched an eyebrow, surprised.

"I'm sorry?"

Shit.

What the fuck did I say?

I composed myself in a second, my face burning under the foundation.

"I meant… the crux of the problem is right there. Opting for deferred payment conditioned on tax-exempt is more suitable. Escrow is solid, but in a volatile sector like artificial intelligence it ties up too much capital for too long. The earn-out, instead, aligns the founders' interests post-closing, reduces initial risk, and offers tax flexibility, with robust clawback clauses in case of IRS audit."

Andrew looked at me for a long second, then smiled, pleased.

"Interesting. I'd go for the earn-out too, though your variant isn't to be dismissed. In fact, it's creative."

I forced a smile.

Marcus interjected. "Well, we're done. If you'd please wait outside, Miss Reed."

I nodded and stood, but in the movement the envelope with the documents slipped, falling to the floor with a dull thud.

"I'm sorry," I stammered, kneeling to pick them up.

Eleanor slowly raised an eyebrow, her eyes settling on me.

"We were missing the cabaret show, my dear. I hope it's not a habit around here. We appreciate composure, especially in a woman."

That acrimonious tone, venomous under the sugar, seeped under my skin like acid.

Shut your trap, old bitch.

My fingers trembled as I gathered the scattered sheets on the table.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

I stood, gave a stiff nod goodbye, and left.

The door closed behind me with a decisive click, almost a seal on that torture.

I leaned against the hallway wall, the cold of the marble filtering through the suit fabric.

I inhaled deeply, once, twice.

"Fuck!"

It came out loud, unfiltered, before I could realize.

"You okay?" Said a voice a little farther from me.

I turned my eyes toward that voice: it was the last girl out before me. The one with wavy brown hair and the red dress falling softly over her hips.

"Sorry," I stammered, "I didn't mean… to swear."

"Don't worry," she replied. "At my house you hear worse."

I dropped into an armchair nearby.

She extended her hand. "Sophia, anyway."

"Madison." I shook it.

"They were tough, huh?" She asked.

"A bit," I admitted.

"You took less time than me, from what I noticed," she observed, with a hint of curiosity.

I furrowed my brow.

Thinking back… there was no clock inside. Maybe on purpose. No ticking, no time references, just to make you lose track of time, to see how you held up under pressure. But with Eleanor in there no clock was needed: her presence was already a noose tightening slow, very slow, around your neck.

God.

It had been one of the craziest days of my life.

Dressed as a woman.

Interrogated by a viper like Eleanor Harrington.

And finding the guy I'd fucked until shaking the night before sitting a meter from me, with green eyes that had looked at me without recognizing me.

If someone had told me that morning, while I was putting on makeup, I'd have laughed in their face.

"I can tell you were lucky," Sophia said.

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, Andrew Harrington showed up for the interview," she added, her voice lighting with excitement. "I knew he'd be there too, but apparently he arrived late."

If she knew.

If she knew that delay was my fault, or rather, what we'd done together the night before: panting against the cold wall of that bathroom, his hands gripping my hips with almost possessive force, his mouth devouring my neck. That smile would vanish from her face.

The thought almost made me laugh out loud, but I held it back.

"He's a charming man, don't you think?" She continued, with a hint of mischief.

"Oh, yes." I replied.

"It'd be real luck to work next to him."

"Who wouldn't entertain the thought with a man like him." I said, and we laughed together.

"Can I ask what documents they gave you?" Sophia asked me, lowering her voice. "I noticed they gave everyone different files."

I told her the title of my case.

Sophia looked surprised. "Oh, mine's the same."

"Really?" I showed my papers to confirm.

"How strange," she murmured, furrowing her brow slightly as she flipped through the sheets again.

"Only us two got the same case. The other candidates, from what I saw around, had completely different cases." She paused, looking at me puzzled. "Was it random? Or maybe they did it on purpose… like to compare how two people handle the same problem, see who comes up with the most original idea."

I shrugged, but inside I mulled it over. The envelopes seemed distributed randomly, no visible logic. My stomach tightened again. If it was just us two with the same case… did that mean we were the finalists? Or that the firm wanted to see which of the "best" would crack first?

I hoped to relax at least a minute, to breathe deeply and slow that heart pounding in my chest like it wanted to escape, but the door reopened almost right away, with a creak that made me jolt inside.

Marcus came out of the conference room with his kind smile.

"Sophia Langford and Madison Reed, come in, please."

Fine.

It's truth time.

I stood from the armchair, every step toward the door seeming to cost disproportionate effort: the hallway had suddenly lengthened, the shiny floor reflecting my uncertain heels like a cruel mirror.

Sophia walked beside me, apparently calm, shoulders straight, chin up, steady step, but a quick glance was enough to notice how tightly she clutched the envelope. She was nervous too. Or maybe excited, who knows.

We entered the conference room side by side, our steps syncing involuntarily on the shiny floor.

The committee was already standing around the oval table, a compact circle of prestigious figures. At the center loomed Eleanor Harrington: back straight as a blade, posture allowing no slouch, an innate aura of superiority that needed no words to be felt, just the way she held her chin slightly raised, gaze seeming to measure everything (and everyone) with surgical coldness. That simple positioning was enough to make blood boil in veins without her opening her mouth.

To her right Victoria, hands clasped in front of her body in a gesture of studied composure. Marcus placed himself next to the other woman, still nameless to me, with a neutral expression of someone used to observing more than speaking.

And then there was him.

Andrew.

Leaned with studied nonchalance against the table edge, phone clutched in his fingers like scrolling a trivial message. His expression was impenetrable: no ostentatious boredom, no evident curiosity, no restrained impatience. Just a sidereal distance, like he was there only physically, mind already elsewhere, far from that room, from that palpable tension, from me.

Then his gaze lifted, for an instant on Sophia, quick and indifferent, before settling on me. A fleeting eye contact, devoid of any warmth, a neutral flash.

Yet, it was enough to make me waver.

Eleanor sized us both up. Her cynical smile opened slowly, a thin slash on her lips, like she was already deciding our worth before we even opened our mouths.

"Well, girls," she began. "We've evaluated your abilities carefully. You've surely noticed only you two received the same case. It wasn't circumstance, perhaps better to say luck favored you."

She paused artificially, letting silence thicken in the room, eyes passing slowly from me to Sophia with a pleased smile, like savoring every second of suspense.

"The other candidates showed little clarity, when not outright superficiality, despite the assigned documents being quite easy files, almost elementary."

She curved her lips slightly in a perfunctory smile, feigning regret with that artificial grace she used to reprimand those not up to par.

"It would have been much simpler if one of you two had bombed. It would have given us an immediate choice, without all these… doubts."

Why's she doing this whole show?

Can't she just say the name and be done?

It's like she enjoys keeping us on tenterhooks, making us sweat, reminding us with every pause who really runs things in here.

My eyes slid to Andrew, almost against my will.

Now standing by the table, still with phone in hand, fingers typing quick on the screen.

For an instant he seemed identical to Samy the night before at The Vault: same way of tilting his head slightly, same distracted but precise rhythm while typing.

But then my gaze fell on the dark gray suit wrapping his body.