Chapter 2 .

Aria Vale

Elliot Blackthorne didn't blink. He just stared at me, as if my entire worth as a person was being weighed, judged, and measured in these few silent moments.

Finally, as though satisfied, or perhaps just bored, he leaned back into his chair, steepling his fingers.

"You're all here because you believe you have something to offer. Potential, skills, drive." His voice dropped, even and cold. "But in my world, belief isn't enough. Results matter. Failure is costly. And in case you think you're walking into a simple interview, let me clarify something."

The air shifted. There was an unspoken tension now, a quiet ripple of unease that spread across the room. I glanced at the other women from the corner of my eye. One frowned, her lip trembling slightly, while another's nails dug anxiously into her folder.

"You will be tested," Elliot said, his gaze razor-sharp. "Not with theoretical questions or polished resumes, but with actual work. Real projects. Tasks that will challenge you. And if you fail..."

He paused, letting the silence hang in the air like a guillotine waiting to drop.

"If you fail, you'll owe this company the costs incurred during your onboarding."

For a moment, no one moves.

What?

The words hit the room like a bomb. I blinked, keeping my face neutral, but my brain raced to process. He's serious. Elliot Blackthorne wasn't offering us a clean shot at employment, he was turning this into a gamble. Win, and you move forward. Lose, and you leave with more than bruised pride...you leave in debt.

One of the women, a blonde standing to my left, suddenly spoke up. Her voice wobbles slightly. "What do you mean by... owe?"

Elliot tilted his head toward her, his expression unflinching. "Exactly what I said. Blackthorne Atelier isn't a charity. Resources, materials, and time all cost money. If you waste them, you'll pay for it. That's the risk of taking a seat in this room."

"But... that's not fair," she protested, her voice growing more panicked. "I'm here for a job, not to get into debt. This isn't..."

"Then leave," Elliot cuts her off, his tone like ice. "No one is forcing you to be here."

The woman stared at him, wide-eyed, and then looked back at us, as if hoping for support. None came. She made a soft, choked sound, clutching her folder tighter. "I can't..."

She didn't finish. Instead, she spun on her heel and bolted out of the room, her heels clattering against the polished floors as she disappeared through the door.

A heavy silence fell over the room. Elliot didn't even flinch. If anything, he looked... mildly satisfied. Like he had expected nothing less.

"Anyone else?" he said, his gaze sweeping over us again. "If you don't think you can handle it, leave now."

No one moved this time.

I kept my expression smooth, though my pulse thrummed in my ears. Inside, I felt a mix of admiration and frustration. Elliot's tactics were harsh, ruthless even, but there was no denying that he was in complete control of the room. He was testing us, weeding out the weak before the real work began. It was unfair, but the world he operated in rarely was.

And the truth? I wasn't scared. I didn't walk into battles I couldn't win.

Elliot leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "Good. The rest of you have passed the first test, just showing up."

I allowed myself a small breath of relief.

Elliot tapped the file on the table, the sharp sound echoing in the tense silence. He seemed to relish the moment, the unease radiating through the room like a palpable fog.

"This," he said, gesturing at the worn folder on the table, "is the task you'll be working on. By the time the clock strikes midnight, I expect a complete solution. If you can't deliver, don't bother coming back."

His words settled like lead in my chest. Midnight. That gave us, what, twelve, maybe thirteen hours? I glanced at the others. One of them, a brunette with sharp cheekbones and narrowed eyes, looked ready to tackle the task head-on, while another, the youngest of us, fidgeted nervously with her blazer cuffs. I didn't blame her.

This wasn't a job interview anymore.

It was survival of the fittest.

But then Elliot's gaze darkened, and he pointed to the small, empty wooden box at the center of the table.

"Before you can collect the file," he said, enunciating each word as though it carried grave importance, "you'll need to prove something. You'll submit something personal to the box."

We all stared at the box. It was unassuming, simple wood, no lock, no markings. It felt almost absurdly ordinary, given the bizarre demand that followed.

"Personal?" the brunette asked slowly, as though testing the word on her tongue. "What do you mean by that?"

Elliot's lips curved into the faintest smirk, but there was nothing kind about it. "Take off your panties or your bra. Put it in the box."

The room seemed to freeze. My heart stumbled over itself, disbelief rushing through me like ice water. Surely, I had heard him wrong. But his expression didn't waver, and the silence that followed told me the others had heard him too.

"What?" the youngest woman blurted out, her voice high-pitched with incredulity.

"You heard me," Elliot said evenly, like he was asking us to hand over pens, not intimate articles of clothing. "The box stays empty until someone pays the price for that file."

"You're insane," one of the women snapped. It was the brunette. She stood straighter now, her dark eyes flashing with fury. "This isn't some power game where you get to humiliate us for kicks. Do you really think you can get away with this?"

Elliot didn't react, not even a flicker of irritation. He simply shrugged, his expression unreadable. "I don't need you to agree. You're welcome to leave, just like the last one did."

Her jaw tightened, her fists clenching at her sides. "You're sick."

"And you're free to walk out that door," Elliot replied smoothly, leaning back once more in his chair. "But if you're serious about the opportunity in front of you, I suggest you get over whatever pride or fear you're clinging to. Quickly."

The brunette stared at him for a moment longer, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. She looked like she wanted to say something more, to lash out, but instead, she spun on her heel and stormed out of the room. The sound of the door slamming behind her reverberated through the space.

That left three of us.

I glanced at the other two women. The youngest looked horrified, frozen in place, while the third woman, an elegant redhead with striking features, looked pensive, her gaze fixed on the box as though she was weighing her options.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my thoughts. Elliot's demand was vile. Outrageous.