Chapter 5 The Interview That Wasn't

Clara's lips parted, but no words came out.

Her throat tightened, and her fingers curled into trembling fists at her sides. She could barely meet his eyes but she couldn't look away either. Not from the man who had once touched her like she was a secret and kissed her like she was on fire only to now stare at her like something rotting on his marble floors.

"I didn't know you own TF," she finally whispered.

Nicholas Wolfe leaned back in his chair with slow, deliberate ease, like a predator watching prey stumble into its own grave. His arms folded across his chest with casual arrogance, but his eyes were anything but casual. They were sharp. Cold. Unforgiving.

"Of course you didn't," he said, his voice like cut glass. "Just a coincidence, right? Out of every company in the city, you blindly stumbled into this one. How convenient."

Heat rose to Clara's neck. Her cheeks burned with a mixture of humiliation and something else. Something hotter.

Fury.

"No," she said, her voice trembling but firmer now. She took a shaky step forward. "The listing didn't say it was Wolfe Enterprises. It was anonymous. I applied through a third-party site.

"Then why are you here?" he snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. "Looking for another handout? Another check?

Clara flinched like he'd struck her, but the shock of his words was quickly replaced by confusion and then, realization.

Her breath caught.

"I didn't know you owned TF," she said quietly, her brows pinching. "The listing didn't say Wolfe Enterprises. It just said Thomas Fashion."

"Exactly," he said coldly. "Thomas Fashion. Named after my brother. Late brother."

Clara's heart stuttered.

She remembered reading the name on the interview email. She'd assumed it was a small fashion house, one of those sleek, boutique startups. She'd done her research, but Wolfe Corp had never come up. There was no way to connect the two unless someone already knew the family ties.

Her voice softened, shaken but honest. "I didn't know it was connected to you. I swear."

Nicholas rose slowly from his chair. "How convenient that every excuse you offer is rooted in ignorance."

"No," Clara said, her voice cracking. "It's not an excuse. It's the truth. I only wanted a chance to work. To survive."

He stared at her like she was a puzzle with a missing piece or maybe a lie waiting to unravel.

"You expect me to believe you applied to a company and didn't know who owned it?"

Clara met his eyes, even though her throat was tight and her body screamed for escape.

"Yes," she said, her voice soft but unwavering. "Because I wasn't looking for you, Mr. Wolfe. I was looking for a lifeline."

For Lily. For the crushing debt. For the hope that somewhere, somehow, she could claw her way out of the hole she'd been buried in.

Nicholas stared at her, jaw tight, his gaze narrowing like he was searching for cracks in her resolve. His presence felt like thunder loud even in silence. But Clara refused to look away.

She wouldn't give him that satisfaction.

Then, without warning, he exhaled sharply through his nose and turned his back to her.

"You have five minutes," he said coldly, walking to the far end of the glass office. He stood with his hands in his pockets, shoulders tense. "Sit. Convince me you're not wasting my time."

Her stomach twisted.

Five minutes.

That's all she had to salvage what little dignity remained. To fight for her sister's next treatment. To face the man who now saw her as nothing more than a manipulative opportunist.

Clara hesitated. For one long second, she seriously considered walking out. Throwing the door open, leaving this icebox of a man to his empire of glass and steel. He'd already made up his mind hadn't he?

But then she saw Lily's pale face flash in her mind, tubes hooked to her veins, her smile a little smaller each day.

She couldn't walk away.

Clara took a breath, steeling herself, and stepped forward. Her heels clicked against the polished marble as she crossed the room and sat in the leather chair opposite his desk.

"I didn't come here to beg," she began, clasping her shaking hands in her lap. "I came here to work. I've worked since I was sixteen. Waitress. Retail. Receptionist. Coffee shops. I've handled rude customers, double shifts, bounced checks. I've never asked for a single thing I didn't fight for."

Nicholas turned slowly, expression unreadable.

"You think that's enough to get you into my company?" he asked. "Because you've survived?"

"No," Clara said quietly. "I think it means I won't break easily. Even when someone powerful tries to."

That hung in the air between them sharp, bold, and far too honest.

His eyes flickered. Just for a second.

Then, slowly, he came back to his desk and sat, studying her like a man watching a chessboard, unsure if the next move would end the game or blow it wide open.

"Tell me something, Clara Hart," he said, voice low. "If I hadn't been the one in that suite that night, if it had been someone else, someone nameless would you still have used that check?"

She blinked.

The question caught her off guard. For a moment, she couldn't answer.

Then

"Yes," she whispered. "Because my sister needed surgery. She still does. I didn't have the luxury of pride."

Nicholas leaned back, his jaw clenched tight. His fingers tapped the desk once. Twice.

And then, silence.

A long, suffocating silence.

Finally, he spoke.

"You'll start Monday," he said, tone clipped. "Junior assistant in the design department. You'll report to Marianne Roake. Not to me."

Clara's mouth parted in shock.

He continued before she could respond.

"You'll receive the standard entry-level salary. No special favors. No direct access to me. You'll earn your place or lose it."

She swallowed. "Thank you."

"I'm not doing it for you."

His voice was harder now, colder again. Whatever crack she'd seen in his armor had sealed shut.

"I'm doing it because I'll enjoy watching how long you can last before you crack under pressure."

Clara stood slowly, her legs a little numb.

She gave a stiff nod, forcing her voice not to shake. "Then I guess we'll both find out."

Nicholas didn't respond.

He simply picked up a file and opened it, already dismissing her from his mind.

Clara turned, walked to the door, and opened it. But before she left, she looked back just once.

The man she saw behind that glass desk was not the same man who had touched her that night with heat and hunger and something that almost resembled softness.

This Nicholas Wolfe was steel.

Untouchable.

But so was she.

She walked out, heels steady now, back straight.

Because this time, she wasn't walking out as the girl from that night.

She was walking out as his employee.

And the game had just begun.