Chapter 200
**Sara**
I checked my reflection in the cab's window, smoothing my navy blazer. The building in front of me stretched toward the sky like some architect's fever dream of glass and steel.
"That'll be thirty-six." The cab driver drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
I handed him forty. "Keep the change."
"Big interview?" He counted the bills.
"That obvious, huh?"
"You've checked your hair twelve times in the last five minutes."
"Only twelve? I'm slipping." I grabbed my portfolio and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The morning sun bounced off the building's mirrored surface, nearly blinding me. Great. Nothing says 'hire me' like walking into an interview squinting like a mole emerging from hibernation. At least I'd worn sensible heels that said 'I'm professional' rather than 'I might topple over at any moment.'
I took a deep breath, channeling my inner girlboss, or whatever Instagram called it these days. Time to go meet this Lucas person and convince him I was worth hiring.
The cab pulled away, leaving me alone on the sidewalk with my thoughts and what felt like a butterfly convention in my stomach. Maybe I should have had that second cup of coffee. Or maybe not - the last thing I needed was caffeine jitters during crucial handshake moments.
I pushed through the revolving doors, my heels clicking against the lobby's marble floor. A security guard glanced up from his crossword puzzle, looking about as interested in my presence as a cat at a dog show.
"Name?" He didn't bother making eye contact.
"Sara Parker. I have an interview at Westbridge Capital."
He typed something into his computer with the speed of a sloth on vacation. "Thirty-second floor."
"Thanks for the enthusiasm," I muttered, heading for the elevator bank.
The elevator arrived with a cheerful 'ding' that felt too peppy for my current stress level. Inside, mirrors surrounded me on three sides - perfect for catching every nervous tick and fidget. I smoothed my blazer for the millionth time.
"Stop it," I told my reflection. "You're going to wear a hole in the fabric."
A woman stepped in on the twelfth floor, gave me a strange look, and promptly focused on her phone.
The Thirty-second floor opened into a reception area. The chairs looked like they'd been stolen from a modern art museum, and I wasn't sure how to sit in them without risking an embarrassing slide to the floor.
"Sara Parker?" A woman with a perfect posture and even more perfect hair approached me. "I'm Valentina, Mr. Wright's assistant."
"Hi, yes, that's me." I stood up too quickly, almost dropping my portfolio.
"Follow me." She turned on her heel with military precision.
Valentina led me through a maze of glass-walled offices where everyone looked important and slightly terrifying.
We ended up in a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows that made my stomach lurch slightly when I glanced at the cityscape below.
The long mahogany table gleamed under recessed lighting, and the leather chairs looked far more practical than the artistic monstrosities in reception. A row of framed awards lined one wall, their glass surfaces catching the morning light.
"Mr. Wright will be with you shortly." She gestured to a chair. "Would you like water?"
"Yes, please." My throat suddenly felt like the Sahara.
She returned with a glass of water. "Mr. Wright will conduct the initial interview, and then if all goes well, you'll meet with Mr. Anderson."
"Lucas Anderson?"
"Indeed."
Mr. Wright turned out to be a middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses and the energy of someone who ate spreadsheets for breakfast. He fired questions at me like a tennis ball machine gone rogue.
"Walk me through your thesis on market volatility in emerging economies."
"What's your take on cryptocurrency's impact on traditional banking?"
An hour later, my brain felt like it had run a marathon while solving differential equations. Mr. Wright shuffled his papers, looking neither impressed nor unimpressed - just sort of... pressed.
"Well, Ms. Parker, your credentials are solid, and your responses show promise." He adjusted his glasses. "I believe Mr. Anderson would like to meet you now."
My shoulders relaxed slightly at Mr. Wright's words. At least I hadn't completely bombed the first round.
"Thank you, sir."
"Valentina will return shortly to escort you." He stood, straightened his tie, and marched out like a man late for his next spreadsheet conquest.
I took a long drink of water, wondering if I should check my teeth for lipstick. The glass wall showed my reflection - everything seemed in place, though my right eyebrow was doing that weird thing where it tried to escape my face.
Five minutes stretched into ten. I resisted the urge to check my phone and counted the ceiling tiles twice.
The door opened, and Valentina glided in, making walking look like an Olympic sport.
"This way, please."
We wound through another maze of corridors. The office buzzed with activity—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, and the occasional burst of laughter. It felt alive, unlike some of the corporate mausoleums I'd interviewed at before.
Valentina stopped at a corner office. "Mr. Anderson will see you now."
She opened the door, and I stepped into what had to be the most tastefully intimidating office I'd ever seen. The furniture screamed 'money' but whispered 'class.'
And there, standing by a wall of windows, was Lucas Anderson. Claire hadn't been exaggerating - he looked like he'd walked straight off a magazine cover. Tall, with dark hair that looked perfectly styled and carelessly tousled.
Not that I was noticing any of that. This was strictly professional observation.
"Ms. Parker." He turned, revealing startlingly blue eyes and a smile that probably came with a warning label. "Please, come in."
Valentina disappeared, closing the door behind her with practiced silence.
"I've heard good things." He gestured to a chair across from his desk. "Claire speaks very highly of you."
Great. Now I had to live up to whatever exaggerated praise Claire had undoubtedly heaped on me.
"Claire tends to speak highly of everything." I sat down, hoping my voice sounded steadier than it felt. "She once convinced me a pet rock was a sound investment."
He laughed - a real laugh, not one of those polite business chuckles. "That sounds like Claire. To be fair, some pet rocks have better returns than certain stocks I could mention."
Was the CEO of Westbridge Capital making jokes? This interview was already weird enough without adding humor.
I shifted in my chair, trying to find my professional footing. Here was one of the most powerful CEOs in the city cracking jokes about pet rocks. What next - would he pull out a whoopee cushion?
"So, Ms. Parker." He settled into his chair. "Tell me why you're interested in Westbridge Capital."
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