The Interview

The elevator climbs silently toward the penthouse, and I can't stop my hands from trembling.

I press my portfolio case tighter against my chest, willing myself to be calm, professional, everything I've trained for. This is just another interview. Another chance. The fact that it's with Sebastian Cross—reclusive tech billionaire, notoriously impossible to please, and the most powerful man in Silicon Valley—shouldn't matter.

But it does. God, it does.

The numbers tick higher. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. My reflection stares back at me from the polished steel doors—navy sheath dress, modest heels, hair pulled back in a sleek bun. I look competent. Capable. Forgettable.

That's the plan.

Sixty. The doors glide open.

I step into a space that steals my breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the San Francisco skyline, the bay glittering in the late afternoon sun. The penthouse is all clean lines and expensive materials—concrete, glass, leather so dark it's almost black. It feels like stepping inside a mind: precise, controlled, deliberately intimidating.

"Ms. Okafor."

His voice comes from behind me, and I spin, heart hammering.

Sebastian Cross stands in the doorway of what must be his office, one shoulder braced against the frame. He's younger than I expected—mid-thirties, maybe. Dark hair pushed back from a face that belongs on magazine covers, not in boardrooms. Sharp jaw. Eyes the color of storm clouds. A tailored charcoal suit that probably costs more than my rent.

But it's not his looks that make my pulse spike. It's the way he's watching me. Like I'm a problem he's already solving. Like he can see through every layer of professionalism I've so carefully constructed.

"Mr. Cross." I extend my hand, proud that my voice doesn't waver. "Thank you for seeing me."

He pushes off the doorframe and crosses to me with the easy grace of someone who owns every room he enters. When he takes my hand, his grip is firm, warm, lasting just a beat longer than professional.

"You were impressive in the preliminary interviews," he says. "Direct. Opinionated. You told my head of development his design vision was 'architecturally illiterate.'"

Heat floods my cheeks. "I apologize if that was—"

"It was accurate." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "He's been with me eight years and no one's had the nerve to say it. I promoted him beyond his competence. You saw that in fifteen minutes."

I don't know how to respond. Praise from Sebastian Cross feels like a trap waiting to spring.

"Follow me." He turns and walks toward his office. Not a request. A command.

I follow.

The office is massive but sparse. A desk that's more sculpture than furniture. A wall of screens showing what loo...