Chapter 5: Hiring and Interviews.
"So, you want me to interview… this." I slid the stack of CVs across the polished mahogany, the paper feeling heavier than it should. Martha didn't even look up from her tablet, her fingers dancing across the screen.
"You approved the hires. The global economy is a dumpster fire, and our headcount was starting to look like a ghost ship. We need bodies." Her tone was as crisp and efficient as ever.
I sighed and snatched the top folder. "Camera girls for journalism and modeling, three models, two AI/ML engineers, and four finance masters." I whistled, low and long. "We're either building a media empire or a very expensive cult. Remind me of the damage."
"We have six million to cover salaries," Martha said, her voice a calm counterpoint to my rising anxiety. "Eighty million in the bank, and last year's revenue was eighty-five. I've already projected the cash flow for the next eighteen months. We're solid." She finally looked up, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "You hired me to worry about the numbers, remember?"
"Dayum," I muttered, leaning back in my chair. A dozen memories of her working late, her face lit by a monitor, flashed behind my eyes. "Okay, you got me. I'm just the moral support."
"You're the vision," she corrected, a little too smoothly. "The spirit. The… guy who signs the checks."
'That means I do nothing,' I thought, but I just grinned. "Fine. Send in the first victims."
The door swung open and in they came, a trio of energy and ambition that immediately filled the room. They moved with an easy synchronicity that spoke of long familiarity.
"I thought it was supposed to be one by one," I said, arching an eyebrow.
"We work better as a set," the redhead announced, extending a hand. "Mary Jane."
"Gwen Stacy," the blonde added, her smile sharp and professional.
"Felicia," the white-haired one finished, offering only a nod, her hands tucked into her jacket pockets. She was the one I'd watch.
Their resumes were impressive: three years experience, six months of independent commercial work. But paper doesn't measure spine.
"Just for the record," I started, leaning forward on my elbows, "you know what you're stepping into. The model industry has a tendency to chew people up and spit them out. It can get dark."
Felicia met my gaze head-on. "We know. Everyone knows." Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I don't care. Can't speak for them."
"What about you two?" I asked, my eyes shifting to the others.
They exchanged a quick look, a silent conversation passing between them in a split second. "We can take care of ourselves," Gwen said, her tone leaving no room for debate.
"Good," I said, pushing a hypothetical scenario across the table. "Let's test that. A photographer 'accidentally' deletes all the safe-for-work shots from a campaign. The only ones left are lingerie. The client loves them and wants to use them. Your contract says you have final approval. What do you do?"
Mary Jane answered first. "We remind them of the contract. We offer a reshoot at the client's expense. If they push, we lawyer up. Our brand is our reputation."
"Correct," I nodded. "Now, what if the lawyer says the contract is vague and you'll likely lose in court, costing you more money?"
"Then we leak the story," Felicia said instantly. "Anonymously. 'Photographer Deletes Campaign, Attempts to Pressure Models into Unauthorized Shoot.' The PR nightmare for them is worth more than the campaign. We walk away with our integrity intact, and they're the ones who look like predators."
I stared at her for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across my face. I liked her. I liked all of them. "Fine. Let's get this formality over with."
An hour later, after a series of sharp, confident answers, I was satisfied. "Martha will contact you three. Stay active." I stood, signaling the end.
The next candidate was a cameragirl, Jessica Drew and April. She was all business, and she tried to renegotiate her salary right off the bat. This time, Martha was beside me, and it was like watching a masterclass. Jessica and April laid out her arguments with precision, but Martha was a fortress, calmly parrying every point with market data, budget constraints, and the value of our benefits package. Jessica left looking impressed, if a little defeated.
Then came the engineers: Susan Storm and Kitty Pryde. I'd never heard of them, but Martha assured me they were luminaries in the field. The interview started professionally enough, but after I asked about their motivations, it derailed into something else entirely.
"I'm just tired of building things that get used to create deepfakes of my ex-boyfriend," Susan admitted, her professional mask cracking. "I need a project with a soul."
"I get that," Kitty added, swirling the ice in her water glass. "My last boss wanted me to build an algorithm to predict consumer impulses. It felt like I was building a high-tech slot machine for people's dopamine. I hated it."
I blinked, unsure if I was conducting an interview or a therapy session. "And you think you'll find a soul here?"
"We hope to," Susan said, and the way she looked at me made it clear my job was to provide one. As long as they produced, I was fine playing therapist.
The final round was for finance. Four Korean specialists: Nila, Yuhee, Joo-hee, and Do-hee. They entered as a single, intimidating unit. They didn't have resumes; they had a presentation. They showed us, with cold, hard data, exactly how much money they had made their previous firms and how much more they could make for us.
Then came the demand. "We require a fifty percent hike over your initial offer," Nila stated, as if discussing the weather. "With an additional week of leave and a stipend for continued education."
Martha's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. I saw the calculator running in her head. It was a massive demand, an arrogant power play.
I leaned forward, mirroring their serious expressions. "That's a steep price. What makes you worth it?"
Do-hee, the quietest one, placed a tablet on the table. It showed a single, massive number. "This is the amount of revenue we can guarantee you in the first year, based on a conservative market analysis. It's a fifteen percent increase over your best year to date. Our price is high because our results are guaranteed. We don't fail."
Martha and I looked at each other. It was a gamble. A huge one. But it was a gamble with astonishingly good odds.
"Welcome aboard," I said, extending my hand.