The CEO'S Regret

My alarm rang for the third time, and I finally woke up. 6:45 AM. Already fifteen minutes late.

"No, no, no!" I jumped out of bed, my foot caught in the sheets, and I landed on the floor.

Great. Another bruise to add to my collection. Just what I needed on the most important day of my career.

Today was the interview at Blackwood Industries, for the design position that would change my life. No more scraping by on freelance work that barely covered the rent for my postage-stamp apartment. No more ramen noodle soup and dollar store shampoo.

I rushed through my morning routine, cursing as I poked my own eye with mascara. My chestnut hair was acting up, so I forced it into a messy bun, hoping it would be creative rather than hasty.

"You can do this, Olivia," I told my reflection, which I didn't actually believe.

My second-hand blazer, which was only a week old, was enough to layer over my single work dress. I stuffed my portfolio into my bag, grabbed a granola bar, and headed out the door.

My trusty old Honda Civic groaned in pain as I inserted the key. "Don't you do that to me," I said quietly, drawing my fingers around the dashboard in the caress of a temperamental child. The engine gargled twice and then belched into existence.

The drive to Manhattan was an early morning rush hour nightmare. Every red light was a personal affront as I sat and waited for minutes. When I arrived at the 32nd floor of the Blackwood Tower, I had twelve minutes before I could park.

I was rushing to the front door when the heavens opened. No spring shower, but a torrential downpour that drenched me in seconds.

"Perfect," I murmured, clutching my portfolio as I dashed for cover.

The entrance to Blackwood Tower was foreboding, with its shiny marble, steel, and glass finish.

Everyone who passed through the doors there was dressed in what appeared to be very expensive-looking suits, striding purposefully through the floor as I stood there drenched, puddling a bit of water around my ankles.

The security guard looked at me warily.

"I'm interviewing," I said to him, shoving dripping strands of hair out of my face. "Olivia Gray, graphic designer."

He looked at his tablet. "You are on the 32nd floor. Seven minutes ago."

My stomach dropped. Behind. Of course, I was behind.

I sprinted to the elevator, shoving people in both directions. The doors were closing when I leapt into them.

"Please wait for us!"

A hand emerged, holding the doors open. I sighed with relief as I pushed through and came face to face with the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Well muscled and tall, he had dark hair and blinding blue eyes that looked as though they could see right through me.

"Thanks," I puffed, trying to smooth my hair.

He made no comment and simply looked at me from head to toe with an expressionless face. His crisply pressed suit had cost him probably more than I spent on rent for six months.

The elevator rode in painful silence. I tried not to fidget and realize that I looked like a drowned rat next to this poster boy of man.

"You're soaking my shoes through," he finally said, his deep voice distant and icy.

I stared down in horror as water collected in puddles at my feet and overflowed onto his obviously expensive Italian leather shoes.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry!" I rummaged through my bag for a tissue and emerged with the portfolio spilling. Pages fluttered everywhere across the elevator floor.

I sank to my knees, holding on to my designs in desperation. The man didn't help me, just stood there and watched me wrestle with those blue, piercing eyes.

The bell in the elevator rang on the 32nd floor.

"This is you," he said, stepping aside as the doors slid open.

I wrapped my now-drenched portfolio around myself and ran out, but my drenched shoe slid on the marble floor. I pushed forward, into the chest of another man in a suit.

"Whoa there!" I was gripped by firm hands, and I was looking up at warm brown eyes and a gentle smile. This man didn't seem mad like the elevator man had; he seemed to be smiling.

"I'm sorry," I apologized once more that morning. "I'm interviewing today, and I'm late, and it's raining, and my car..."

"Breathe," he added with a laugh. "I'm Jason Kim, junior creative director. You're Olivia Gray?"

I nodded as a wave of relief swept over me. "Yes, I am."

"Good timing. I was just on my way to meet you." He smiled, and lines appeared at the edges of his eyes. "Although I wasn't quite anticipating this kind of dramatic entrance."

My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

"Don't worry about it," Jason said to me, leading me down the corridor. "Everyone's nervous on interview day. Just be yourself, and you'll be fine."

We made a turn, and Jason whispered quietly. "Just a heads-up, Mr. Blackwood has decided to conduct the interviews today. He never considers junior positions, so this is not typical.

"The CEO himself?" My stomach did flips with fresh butterflies.

"Single and by himself. But don't let him intimidate you. Just stand firm with your portfolio and..."

"Kim."

That voice. I recognized it from the elevator.

And then we both saw blue-eyed man from the elevator walk towards us, his eyes as tough as the floor under his feet.

"Mr. Blackwood," Jason hastily got to his feet. "I was only walking Ms. Gray to interview room."

Alexander Blackwood. The ruthless billionaire CEO. And I had cleaned up my act and gotten the better of his shoes.

"I think we've met," Blackwood replied, his eyes locking me in place. Something in his eyes stole my breath. "In the elevator."

"Yes, sir," I stuttered, hardly above a whisper. "Sorry again about your shoes."

One dark eyebrow arched by an infinitesimal degree. "Indeed."

He stepped over toward Jason. "I'll handle Ms. Gray from here. You must be at the Pearson meeting."

Jason looked between us, his expression uncertain. "Sir, I'm supposed to be on the interview panel..."

"I'll handle this personally," Blackwood cut in. "The Pearson account takes top priority."

For a moment, Jason seemed as though he were going to argue, then nodded. He flashed me a huge smile and a tight thumbs-up and was gone down the corridor.

And I was standing there alone with Alexander Blackwood.

"Come on," he said without glancing back over his shoulder to ensure I was behind him.

I followed him, my soaked shoes squelching humiliatingly with each step. We entered a massive corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

"Sit." He gestured to a chair in front of his giant desk.

I sat, holding my portfolio like a shield.

Blackwood was not seated. He walked to the window, his back to me. "Your resume says you graduated from Parsons with honors."

"Yes, sir."

"And yet you're twenty-six and have no significant work experience. Just freelancing." He turned, his gaze on me in that piercing look. "Why?"

The interview caught me off guard. I'd been expecting questions regarding my design philosophy, my technological savvy -- not my employment history.

"I. had family commitments," I said guardedly.

"Tell me about it."

Something in the demanding tone kindled a tiny fire of rebellion. "My father became ill when our company closed. I took care of him as I freelanced to survive."

He gazed at me for a considerable duration. "Display your portfolio."

I opened my wet portfolio with trembling hands and started showing him my work. Every time, I was a little braver, walking him through my concepts and processes.

Blackwood remained silent, his face inscrutable as he examined each design.

Done, I spoke up at last. "Your technical ability is good. Your color sense is bad. That logo is a copy, and that campaign lacks focus."

With every blunt declaration, my heart sank lower.

"But," he continued, "there is raw talent there. New eyes we might perhaps use."

Was... that...a compliment?

He stood up and returned to his desk, sitting and tapping his fingers on the immaculately clean surface. "Why do you wish to work for Blackwood Industries, Ms. Gray?"

I could have recited the canned gratitude for the company's innovation and growth. I did something different, surprising myself. I answered truthfully.

"Because I'm sick of eating ramen for dinner five nights a week. Because I want to show that I am as good as I know I am. Because Blackwood Industries creates work that matters."

Something flashed in his eyes. Surprise, maybe even respect.

"You're hired," he bullied. "You start Monday."

I stared. "Just like that? You don't have to speak to HR or..."

"This is my company, Ms. Gray. I make the decisions." He rose to show the interview was concluded. "Nine AM sharp Monday. Don't be late."

I shook on unsteady legs as the door swung open. A stunning blonde woman in a red designer suit walked in as if she owned the place.

"Alex, sweetie! I've been trying to reach you all morning!" Her voice was honey-sweet, but in her eyes blades of ice flashed.

Blackwood's entire demeanor changed, his stance stiff. "Vanessa. I'm in a meeting."

The woman, Vanessa, smiled at me with teeth that had recently been whitened. "Oh, I didn't realize you had someone with you." She extended a manicured hand in my direction. "Vanessa Sharp."

I rose up and grasped her hand hastily. "Olivia Gray."

"Ms. Gray is our newest graphic designer," Blackwood answered, his tone making it clear the introduction was finished.

Vanessa's smile didn't reach her eyes. "How cute. Alex always had an eye for. new faces."

Her tone filthed me and made me feel small.

"Ms. Gray was just departing," Blackwood answered.

I nodded, holding on to my portfolio. "Thank you for the chance, Mr. Blackwood. I'll be there Monday."

As I was leaving, I heard Vanessa's voice drop to a come-on purr. "Alex, we need to discuss our agreement."

I spun around as I was just closing the door. Blackwood's eyes met mine over the back of Vanessa's head, and something zinged between us – an electric shock I couldn't identify.

The door slammed shut.

I had the job. I should have been walking on sunshine.

So why do I feel like I'd stepped into the lion's den?