Bea’s POV
There are a lot of things you expect to hear when you walk into your first real job interview.
“Welcome.” “Good luck.”
Maybe even “Do you want some water?”
But not, and I repeat—not: “What the hell is an elephant doing in my office?”
That one was new. And I knew I wasn’t supposed to react. I knew the smart thing would be to swallow it down and act like it didn’t just crack the air open like a lightning strike. But my body betrayed me, flushing hot with shame, then cold with fury.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, because if I didn’t, I might have said something. And this man—this tall, beautifully tailored storm cloud—didn’t deserve my words. Not yet.
He didn’t wait for anyone to answer his insult. He turned sharply on his heel, long legs slicing across the marble floor as if the world owed him a runway. He walked through the glass doors of his office without another word, and I swear they didn’t even dare to swing all the way shut before a woman in perfect black heels waved me forward with a clipboard and a look that screamed, Don’t make him wait again.
I followed because what else could I do? My resume folder felt stupid in my hands. My lemon earrings bounced with every nervous step. And the minute I crossed that threshold into his office, I felt like I was standing in a place where kindness had been outlawed.
Julian Wolfe didn’t look at me. Not right away. He stood behind a desk that looked more like a sculpture than something anyone actually worked on. He was on the phone, voice clipped and furious.
“Get HR. Now. And tell them to explain this disaster.”
His eyes didn’t even flick in my direction as he said it. Just that voice–calm like a knife, and colder than any rejection email I’d ever read. He hung up and picked up my resume with two fingers like it was something he found stuck to the bottom of his Louboutin. I stood silent, frozen in the middle of his office like a weirdly dressed statue.
“You were a temp?” he asked, scanning the paper with a faint scoff. “At a marketing firm in Jersey?”
I nodded. “Yes. But I—”
“And now you’re here?” he continued, not bothering to hide the disbelief. “At Wolfe & Whitmore? That’s cute.”
The word landed hard. Cute. Like I was a puppy someone brought into the wrong building. Like I was a joke. My jaw tightened, and I could feel my fists curl at my sides. But I didn’t flinch. I didn’t break. I let the silence do the work, even when it pressed against my chest like a hand trying to shove me back out the door. He didn’t offer me a seat. He didn’t ask questions. Just tossed the resume back on the desk like the verdict was in. And that was when she spoke.
Lydia, his current assistant, walked in carrying a file, her heels silent but her energy loud. She was polished, elegant, the kind of woman who always seemed to know where the power in the room lived and how to serve it a drink. She handed him a folder and glanced at me only once.
“Good luck,” she whispered, low enough that he wouldn’t hear. “He’s fired seven in six months. He likes control and silence. You’re already too loud.”
And then she left. Just like that.
And I stood there feeling like I’d walked into a burning building without realizing I was the fuel.
Julian didn’t look up again. He was flipping through pages, his expression unreadable, and I suddenly knew this was over. I turned slowly, careful not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble. My fingers tightened around the folder. My breath stayed even. My spine stayed straight.
And then, because of course the universe hates me, I walked directly into the glass door. Full face, full force, nose-first.
It made a sound. A loud one. People looked. My dignity screamed internally. I tried to recover quickly, but in my rush to correct myself, I hit the second panel with my shoulder. It felt like a slap. A second, glassy betrayal. Laughter came from somewhere behind a desk. I didn’t look. I just pushed through the door with as much fake grace as I could summon and power-walked down the hall like I still had pride to carry.
But even as I left, I could feel it. Julian Wolfe was watching me. Not with pity. Not even with amusement. With something I couldn’t quite name.
That night, I sat on my couch in an oversized hoodie, trying not to relive the double-glass-door fiasco, and writing in the journal I only ever used when I needed to scream silently. My hand moved slowly, the pen scratching across the page like it didn’t want to cooperate. I stared at the ceiling, thought about his face, the razor line of his suit, the way his voice cut through the air like silk with a blade hidden inside. And then I wrote it down.
He’s beautiful. A nightmare. A rich, Armani-wearing nightmare.