Chapter 4

TRICIA

I was going to get this job.

I had prepared. I had printed three copies of my CV. I had gone to bed at ten o'clock like a responsible adult with goals and a skincare routine.

And then my alarm didn't go off and I woke up at 8:47 for a 9:30 interview on the forty-second floor of Donovan Tower and I was still in my bonnet.

"This is fine," I told myself, simultaneously brushing my teeth and ironing my blazer, which is not something I recommend but desperate times. "Everything is fine. You are fine."

---

The cab driver was not fast enough.

I know that's not fair. I know traffic is traffic and he was doing his best and the lights were not personally targeting me. I know all of this. But I was sitting in the back seat with my CV folder on my lap and my heel half-buckled and my heart doing a full sprint while the rest of me sat completely still, so rationality was not really available to me at that moment.

"Can you..." I gestured vaguely at the road.

"I'm going, madam."

"Yes but can you go — more?"

He looked at me in the rearview mirror with the patience of a man who had seen many unhinged passengers and had decided, collectively, not to engage.

I buckled my heel. Fixed my blazer. Checked my reflection in my phone camera and immediately regretted it. Did my best with what I had, which was limited but determined.

The cab stopped. I threw money at him and got out.

Donovan Tower stood in front of me like an architectural statement of personal intimidation. Glass and steel, forty-two floors, gleaming in the morning sun like it knew it was better than everything around it.

I looked up at it.

It did not look back. But it felt like it did.

"First class honours," I reminded myself, walking through the revolving doors. "You graduated top of your class. You have three years of experience. You are exactly what they are looking for."

I signed in. Got my visitor's pass. Straightened my blazer one more time.

Let's go.

---

The interview panel was three people. Two women and a man, all sitting behind a table, all looking at me with the polite blankness of people who had seen seventeen candidates before me and would see seven more after.

I sat down.

Smiled.

"Walk us through your experience with financial reporting at scale."

I walked them through it.

"How do you manage competing priorities under a tight deadline?"

I told them exactly how, with a specific example, with outcomes and figures.

"What do you know about Donovan Group's current financial restructuring?"

I told them what I knew, which was considerable because I had researched this company for four days like it was a university module and I watched the woman on the left write something down and underline it.

By the end, the man in the middle had leaned forward in his chair. That was good. Leaning forward was good.

"Miss Damien ," he said. "That was genuinely impressive."

I kept my smile professional. On the inside I was doing a full victory lap.

"However," he continued, "the final stage of this process requires you to meet with the CEO directly. He makes the last call on all PA appointments personally."

"Of course," I said smoothly.

The woman on the left leaned forward. "A word of advice, Miss Damien." Her voice dropped slightly, like she was telling me something the walls shouldn't hear. "He is .... particular. Very direct. Answer only what he asks. Don't over-explain. Don't ramble."

I nodded.

Don't ramble. Fine. I could do that. I was a professional.

"Forty-second floor," she said. "Last door on the right. He's expecting you."

---

The elevator was empty and I was grateful because I needed the space.

I pressed forty-two and watched the doors close and the moment they did I turned to my reflection in the steel panel and began.

"Good morning, sir. I'm Tricia Damien." Too stiff. I tried again. "Good morning,! great to meet you, I've heard wonderful things..." "Heard wonderful things? What things? From who? I shook my head. "Good morning. I'm Tricia. I'm the best candidate you've seen today and I think we both know it..."

No. Absolutely not. This is unhinged.

"Good morning, sir. I'm Tricia Damien and I'm very excited about this opportunity..." Excited was good. Excited was normal.

"The reason I'm the right fit for this role is that I don't just manage numbers ...I understand them. I anticipate. I solve before problems become problems. I am exactly what this office—"

"Ding!" The elevator stopped.

I walked toward into the hall way with my shoulders back and my chin high.

"You are a first class graduate. You are talented and prepared and you belong in every room you walk into."

I stopped in front of the door and knocked twice.

"Come in."

A deep, calm voice that sounded awfully familiar.

I turned the handle, pushed the door open, and walked in and I looked up.

My heart didn't just drop, It fell. It bounced. Did two complete flips and then stopped.

Behind the desk.. the large, imposing, corner-office-with-a-skyline-view desk, sitting with his hands folded and his blue eyes already looking directly at me....

Was Christopher Donovan.

The silence lasted maybe two seconds.

They were the loudest two seconds of my life.

"Oh—" The word came out first, before anything else, before sense or professionalism or the very specific advice I had been given not four minutes ago about composure. It came from somewhere deep

and unfiltered and completely beyond my control.

"Oh you have got to be f..."

I stopped myself barely.

His eyes widened. Just slightly. The folders in his hands stilled.

"Tricia," he said. Like a question. Like an answer. Like he wasn't sure which one he needed more.