The door closed behind me with a soft click, not loud, not dramatic. The sound slid down my spine and settled there, heavy and cold. For a second, I just stood in the middle of Alexander Stone's office, my heart beating so hard it blurred my vision, I could hear it in my ears, feel it in my throat. I was three feet away from the man whose name lived in my mother's last notes, whose shadow had swallowed my childhood whole.
He didn't know. That was the only thing keeping me upright.
"Please," he said calmly. "Sit."
He gestured to one of the leather chairs across from his desk. It was wide, expensive, the kind of chair meant to make you feel smaller the moment you sank into it. The desk itself was massive, dark walnut, flawless, dominating the room the way he dominated everything else.
I sat.
My fingers clenched around the strap of my bag like it was an anchor. My mind did what it always did when I was afraid, it catalogued, filed, memorized. The neat stack of folders on the left side of his desk, the pen aligned perfectly with the blotter, the bookshelf behind him—business theory, economics, law… and then poetry, philosophy—Marcus Aurelius, Rilke. The single piece of abstract art on the wall, black slashes across white, violent, controlled. Sunlight poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the city below into something distant and unreal, like a model someone could knock over with one careless hand.
Alexander didn't sit right away.
He moved to the credenza, poured water into two crystal glasses. The sound was soft, ordinary. He placed one in front of me before returning to his chair.
The small kindness threw me off balance. I didn't want him to be kind.
"Thank you," I said, hating that my voice sounded normal.
"You're nervous." His eyes stayed on me, sharp and focused, like he was peeling back layers I hadn't agreed to show. "Is this your first real interview?"
I let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. "Is it that obvious?"
"You haven't blinked," he said. "And you're holding your bag like it might run away."
Heat crept up my neck, I forced my fingers to loosen, forced myself to blink.
Mom, I reminded myself. Do this for her.
He reached for a folder.
My stomach dropped. My résumé, the fake one. My pulse spiked so fast it hurt.
"Your academic record is strong," he said, flipping it open. "Top of your class, excellent analytical skills, impressive portfolio."
I waited for the hammer.
"It's also not entirely accurate."
The room tilted.
"I can..." My throat closed. "I can explain."
"I'm sure you can." He didn't sound angry, that scared me more. "Your GPA was 3.7, not 3.9, you applied for the Goldman Sachs internship but weren't accepted, and while you're clearly proficient in financial modelling, the certification you listed doesn't exist."
He closed the folder gently.
"Should I keep going?"
I couldn't breathe. How did he know? How did he know everything?
"I conduct extensive background checks on final candidates," he said, as if reading my mind. "The real question isn't how I found the inconsistencies, it's why you felt you needed them."
This was it, security would walk in any second, this entire plan would collapse before it even began.
Then I thought of my father, pale against white hospital sheets, thought of my mother's handwriting growing tighter, more desperate, until it stopped altogether.
If he finds out I know, I'm dead.
Something in me broke.
"Because people like me don't get chances," I said.
The words came out sharp, unpolished, raw.
"I worked three jobs to stay in school, I didn't have time to intern for free or network at wine bars, I learned financial modelling at night, online, after twelve-hour shifts, I'm good at what I do, better than good, but none of that shows up unless I make you look twice."
I realized I was standing only when my knees locked.
"So yes," I said, my voice shaking now, "I made myself look like someone you'd actually consider, because the system is rigged, Mr. Stone, and sometimes you have to rig it back just to get in the damn door."
The silence that followed was brutal.
I waited for anger, for dismissal, for humiliation. Instead, Alexander Stone leaned back and studied me, then slowly he smiled. It wasn't the polished expression from the magazines, this one cracked something open, made him look almost… human.
"Sit down, Miss Wells."
I obeyed, stunned.
"You're right," he said. "The system is rigged; I've benefited from it my entire life." He shrugged lightly. "Prep school, Ivy League, inherited a company at twenty-three, I never had to embellish a thing, my name did the work for me."
This wasn't going the way I'd imagined.
"But honesty," he continued, leaning forward, "is rare. You could've lied again, you didn't, you got angry, you told the truth."
My mind scrambled, trying to keep up.
"So… I'm not being escorted out?"
He laughed, a real laugh, brief, unexpected.
"Fraud?" he said. "Your actual record is more impressive than most of the people I interview. A 3.7 GPA while working three jobs tells me more than a perfect transcript ever could."
He tapped the folder.
"Your models are clean, elegant. You see patterns my senior analysts miss."
He paused.
"I'm going to offer you the position."
My heart slammed.
"Special projects analyst," he said. "You'll report directly to me, you'll see sensitive financial data, projects most employees will never know exist."
His expression hardened.
"But I require absolute integrity, no more lies, no omissions, because betrayal..."
Something flickered across his face, old, deep.
"—is not something I forgive."
I noticed it, stored it away. A weakness, a wound.
Good, I thought coldly.
"I understand," I said.
"Do you?" He stood and moved to the window. "This company has survived betrayals, people it trusted, people my father trusted. They nearly destroyed everything."
My chest tightened. Was he talking about her?
"I rebuilt it," he said. "Stronger, but carefully."
He turned back.
"If you betray me," he said quietly, "I won't just fire you, I'll erase you from this industry."
The threat should've terrified me, instead, it burned.
I nodded. "I understand, no lies."
He studied me, long and searching, like he was deciding whether to believe me.
Then he nodded. "You start Monday."
Just like that.
I stood, legs shaking. "Thank you."
"I hope that gratitude lasts." He extended his hand. "Welcome to Stone Industries, Miss Wells."
I shook his hand, his grip was firm, warm. I was touching the man who destroyed my family and somehow, I didn't pull away.
He walked me to the door. "One more thing."
"Yes?"
"The fire you showed today?" he said. "Don't lose it."
The door closed behind me.
The elevator ride down felt unreal, my knees nearly gave out when the doors opened in the lobby. That's when I saw it.
The wall.
Photographs—large, framed, polished.
Stone Industries: 40 Years of Excellence
My feet stopped. There she was, my mother, young, smiling, holding a paper plate at a company picnic, hair pulled back, alive. My chest cracked open, I moved closer, my reflection ghosting over the glass. Another photo, her at her desk, focused, capable.
Another.
Her smile faded, eyes tired, three months before she died. I pressed my fist to my mouth; she had trusted this place.
Trusted him.
"Miss Wells?"
I turned, the security guard—Jayden.
"I'm fine," I said hoarsely.
He smiled politely and walked away.
I took out my phone, photographed everything.
Outside, the sunlight felt obscene.
I called my father.
"I got the job," I said.
Then, quietly, "I saw her."
Silence, a broken breath.
"I'm going to finish this," I said, staring up at the tower. "I promise."
I hung up.
And as I walked away, one thought burned steady and sure:
Alexander Stone has no idea what I've already taken from him.
And soon...
I'll take everything else.