I stared at the ornate doorbell, feeling like the world’s
biggest idiot. As I tried to muster up the courage to press the button, my
ingenious idea seemed far, far more idiotic than it had when I’d woken up in bed
this morning. I sighed, my finger hovering in midair mere inches from the
doorbell. I should give this up, I thought, resigned. Go home, pour
myself some wine, throw a real nice pity party...
As I was about to turn around and
admit defeat, the door swung open. “Mr. Black is awaiting you,” a solemn man
said, his arm tucked behind his back.
“He—what?” I stammered. “I didn’t
even actually—”
“We have been interviewing young
women all day,” the man said.
Is he an actual, real-life
butler? I wondered, amazed. Oh my god. His tone was neutral, but I
sensed that he was rolling his eyes inwardly. “Appointment or not, I presume
you are here regarding the job opening. Mr. Black would like to speak with
you.”
I stepped into the mansion, my
eyes growing wide as saucers as I took in the foyer. It was like something out
of a movie. The house was basically a smaller Versailles on the outside, so I
shouldn’t have been surprised, but if even just the front room was this
incredible—
“Is that a real Blake?” I
squeaked as we walked past a spectacular and dark painting of a woman being
tormented by a demon.
“Of course,” the butler said,
sounding affronted that it had even occurred to me to ask. “Mr. Black is an
avid appreciator of fine art. His collection is one of the finest private
collections in the world.”
I gawked my way up the stairs and
down the hall, hardly able to take in the lavishness of the house. It was one
thing to know how that a person is rich, but for a struggling young lady like
myself, the word “billionaire” hadn’t really meant anything concrete to me.
Seeing this house made it real.
“Mr. Black’s chambers,” the
butler said, ushering me inside. The room looked to be an office, just as
well-appointed as the rest of the house. The butler, who didn’t follow me in,
shut the door softly behind me. I walked slowly into the room, jumping only
slightly when a low voice spoke to me out of a dark corner.
“I am Carter Black,” said a man
that I hadn’t immediately noticed. I gaped even more as he stepped forward: Mr.
Black was not only rich, he was gorgeous . His suit had obviously been
made just for him. His dark, slicked-back hair was both sophisticated and
modern, not a strand out of place. His eyes were completely arresting. As I
dumbly reached out a hand, he raised one inquisitive eyebrow. “And you are...?”
“Oh! I’m Cerise. Cerise
Rousseau.” I was astonished when Mr. Black kissed my hand rather than shake it.
“I presume you’re here based on
certain—rumors about me,” he said, his voice like velvet over steel. I could
tell that if I said the wrong thing, I’d be out of here, and fast.
“Yes, and no,” I said cautiously.
He barked a short, hard laugh.
“Some of them are true.” Mr. Black circled me like a lion. I felt like I was
about to be eaten. “I am a difficult man to work with, Miss Rousseau. I don’t
like to be questioned. I don’t like to repeat myself. I am used to getting what
I want. I can be—eccentric. As my personal assistant, your responsibility is to
ensure that I get what I want at all times. Can you do that?”
“Y-yes, sir,” I stammered, my
face flushing beet-red. It sounded like a tall order, but I really needed the
job. I was facing eviction in the next week if I didn’t get some cash.
“Why didn’t you submit your
application with the rest of the group?” he asked coolly. “Or at all?”
“I—I had a job during the
application period,” I said, feeling about as awkward as I ever had in my life.
“There was a misunderstanding, and...” I trailed off, staring at my feet. This
was easily the worst interview of all time.
“Really,” he said, sounding
uninterested. “Very well, you will
biggest idiot. As I tried to muster up the courage to press the button, my
ingenious idea seemed far, far more idiotic than it had when I’d woken up in bed
this morning. I sighed, my finger hovering in midair mere inches from the
doorbell. I should give this up, I thought, resigned. Go home, pour
myself some wine, throw a real nice pity party...
As I was about to turn around and
admit defeat, the door swung open. “Mr. Black is awaiting you,” a solemn man
said, his arm tucked behind his back.
“He—what?” I stammered. “I didn’t
even actually—”
“We have been interviewing young
women all day,” the man said.
Is he an actual, real-life
butler? I wondered, amazed. Oh my god. His tone was neutral, but I
sensed that he was rolling his eyes inwardly. “Appointment or not, I presume
you are here regarding the job opening. Mr. Black would like to speak with
you.”
I stepped into the mansion, my
eyes growing wide as saucers as I took in the foyer. It was like something out
of a movie. The house was basically a smaller Versailles on the outside, so I
shouldn’t have been surprised, but if even just the front room was this
incredible—
“Is that a real Blake?” I
squeaked as we walked past a spectacular and dark painting of a woman being
tormented by a demon.
“Of course,” the butler said,
sounding affronted that it had even occurred to me to ask. “Mr. Black is an
avid appreciator of fine art. His collection is one of the finest private
collections in the world.”
I gawked my way up the stairs and
down the hall, hardly able to take in the lavishness of the house. It was one
thing to know how that a person is rich, but for a struggling young lady like
myself, the word “billionaire” hadn’t really meant anything concrete to me.
Seeing this house made it real.
“Mr. Black’s chambers,” the
butler said, ushering me inside. The room looked to be an office, just as
well-appointed as the rest of the house. The butler, who didn’t follow me in,
shut the door softly behind me. I walked slowly into the room, jumping only
slightly when a low voice spoke to me out of a dark corner.
“I am Carter Black,” said a man
that I hadn’t immediately noticed. I gaped even more as he stepped forward: Mr.
Black was not only rich, he was gorgeous . His suit had obviously been
made just for him. His dark, slicked-back hair was both sophisticated and
modern, not a strand out of place. His eyes were completely arresting. As I
dumbly reached out a hand, he raised one inquisitive eyebrow. “And you are...?”
“Oh! I’m Cerise. Cerise
Rousseau.” I was astonished when Mr. Black kissed my hand rather than shake it.
“I presume you’re here based on
certain—rumors about me,” he said, his voice like velvet over steel. I could
tell that if I said the wrong thing, I’d be out of here, and fast.
“Yes, and no,” I said cautiously.
He barked a short, hard laugh.
“Some of them are true.” Mr. Black circled me like a lion. I felt like I was
about to be eaten. “I am a difficult man to work with, Miss Rousseau. I don’t
like to be questioned. I don’t like to repeat myself. I am used to getting what
I want. I can be—eccentric. As my personal assistant, your responsibility is to
ensure that I get what I want at all times. Can you do that?”
“Y-yes, sir,” I stammered, my
face flushing beet-red. It sounded like a tall order, but I really needed the
job. I was facing eviction in the next week if I didn’t get some cash.
“Why didn’t you submit your
application with the rest of the group?” he asked coolly. “Or at all?”
“I—I had a job during the
application period,” I said, feeling about as awkward as I ever had in my life.
“There was a misunderstanding, and...” I trailed off, staring at my feet. This
was easily the worst interview of all time.
“Really,” he said, sounding
uninterested. “Very well, you will
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