CHAPTER ONE
Alastair Montgomery leaned back in his leather chair and folded his arms—a pose which was probably supposed to appear relaxed but instead just intimidated me, drawing attention to the intense power difference between the two of us. He might be laid-back about this interview, but he already had a career and enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life.
“I can’t be arsed with cliché interview questions, so let’s just cut the bullshit and be honest with one another.”
Out of all the questions I’d memorised and all the interview websites I’d scoured for tips, not one had prepared me for that sentence. The nervous knots in my stomach tightened.
“Anyone can sit in front of me having prepared thirty answers to the bog-standard interview. I couldn’t care less what you think your weaknesses are—I can work that out for myself. I don’t want to hear an example of a time you’ve solved a problem, or managed a conflict, or demonstrated lateral thinking. If you’re gonna work for my company, I want to hear about you as a person. Not as a set of statistics.”
He unfolded his arms and rested them on the table in front of him, loosely threading his fingers together and shifting his weight forwards as his eyes locked confidently onto mine, anticipating my response. Was this a test? Surely not. Despite his pristine suit and expensive watch, the guy sitting opposite me was only twenty-three. Too young for mind games. Maybe he wanted to do things differently. Earn his own reputation.
“I guess if you’ve never been through an interview yourself then you’ve no desire to inflict it upon other people,” I said, raising an eyebrow at him.
It was a reference to him owning a family company. That came with its own set of challenges, I was sure, but at least he’d never had to submit a job application.
His lips twitched but he just raised a shoulder to shrug. “Like I said, anyone can prepare for an interview. I’d rather hire someone I get on with, and who has at least an ounce of personality, than someone with a good memory and the ability to recite rehearsed answers.”
Mimicking him, I shrugged in response. Never before had I shrugged in an interview, but then again, never before had an interview taken such an unprofessional—and unexpected—turn. Besides, mirroring body language was apparently a way to build a bond, so if this guy wanted to hire someone he liked, I’d make it a little easier for him.
“Looks like I wasted my time preparing, then,” I said.
“Yes, it does,” he agreed. “I’m flattered, though. So, tell me about yourself. And not the boring stuff.”
“So not the stuff I prepared.” I forced a smile to disguise my inner frustration.
He smiled back, a cheeky twinkle lighting up his blue eyes. “Absolutely not.”
Nibbling the inside of my lip, I mentally trawled through hours of research to find something I could use. As relaxed as Montgomery wanted this interview to be, the curveball had rattled me. I liked following rules and set patterns. Spontaneity was fine in the right situation, but when it came to getting a job, I didn’t enjoy being expected to provide the right responses to unforeseen questions. That didn’t relax me, and there was a certain arrogance on his part assuming it would.
Fuck it. If he wanted personality, I’d give him personality.
“Your family is one of the wealthiest in London, with shares in several successful companies. You didn’t go to university but worked at one of your father’s businesses before branching off and running your own. So far, you’ve seen excellent growth, but with a surge in competitors and an increasingly fickle market who’d rather use cheaper companies than those with the best reputation, your revenue is plateauing. Not to mention, you went through a messy breakup two years ago and found yourself thrust into the spotlight for personal reasons instead of business ones.”
I paused, gauging his reaction. It had been a risk, but how else was I supposed to play this? He’d said he hated the cliché approach, yet putting someone on the spot and making them think on their feet was one of the most cliché things you could do in an interview. If I crashed out of here without a job offer, at least I’d tossed the curveball back and given him a dose of his own medicine.
Pinning me with a curious stare, Montgomery drummed his fingers against the desk. The rhythmic patter of skin on wood echoed around the quiet office in perfect sync with the ticking clock behind him. Hands hidden on my lap, I fiddled with my bracelet to occupy my anxious energy, but I kept the visible upper half of my body composed and still.
When the tense silence dragged on, I started to suspect there were mind games at play after all. Could I show accountability for mistakes, or would I stand by poor decisions? Could I hold my ground under pressure, or would I roll over at the first sign of confrontation?
If that was his tactic, he’d chosen the wrong person to mess with. I’d had enough of that at school.
Calmly, I added, “I wanted to include something of your personal life in there, since talking about solely business might be too cliché.”
I might as well put the final nail in my coffin and go out with a bang. Next time, smart-arse Alastair Montgomery might think twice before tricking someone in an interview, disregarding all the hard work gone into the preparation because they actually needed a job to survive in London’s harsh climate. Maybe he didn’t like the traditional approach because that meant he’d have to prepare for it too, and no doubt he was far too busy to waste his time.
“I can continue, if you like,” I said.
Finally, he raised an eyebrow. “No, thank you. I’m not too keen on being reminded of that breakup, if it’s all the same to you.”
“No problem. Would you rather I talk about your childhood and the time your father got rid of your dog because you needed to learn how to detach yourself from sentimental relationships?”
“Only if you can remember the breed of the dog.”
Shoulders relaxed and fingers still tapping, he appeared completely unflustered by what should be an upsetting memory. Maybe his father’s aim had worked.
“Border collie,” I said.
A hum of acknowledgement vibrated from beneath his white shirt. He lounged back in his chair, hands sliding off the desk and dropping onto the arm rests. As he moved, a stream of sunlight bounced off one of his cufflinks. They were probably more expensive than my monthly rent.
“I don’t know what’s more impressive: the fact you know so much about me, or the way you boldly ignored how I asked about you, not myself.”
“The fact I shared so much about you actually says a lot about me.” I straightened my spine and rubbed my sweaty palms on my thighs. “I do my research, Mr. Montgomery. I thoroughly prepare. I don’t shy away from difficult conversations.”
He smoothed a hand down his tie, gaze steady on mine. The leather padding creaked when he shifted position.
“Firstly,” he said, “I’m not Mr. Montgomery. That’s my father. I’m Alastair. And secondly, nobody has ever spoken to me like that during an interview.”
“And nobody has ever disregarded my CV and the effort taken to prepare for an interview.”
Beneath faint blond stubble, a muscle in his jaw ticked. The first indication I’d got to him.
“You prepare for one interview, you prepare for them all,” he said. “The questions are always the same.”
“Believe it or not, Alastair, I didn’t do all that research for the fun of it. As entertaining as some of it was.”
His forearms settled on the desk again. A dull ache throbbed at the base of my back, urging me to set my spine free from the straight posture and slouch into the comfort of the backrest. I ignored it.
“All right, then, Miss Henshaw.” Alastair tipped his chin at me. His tone had deepened with formality, lacking the soft, melodic sounds of earlier. “Let’s do it your way. If it’s okay with you, though, we’ll skip the school years. As impressive as eight A*s and two As at GCSE-level is, I’m more interested in your time at university. I’m assuming Bristol was your first choice since you got four A*s in your A-levels? Can’t imagine any universities ask for higher grades than that, but then again, I didn’t go to university, did I, so what would I know?”
Held captive by his intense blue eyes, no longer shining with humour, my mouth dried up. Without looking away from me, he tugged open his top drawer, produced a manila folder, and dropped it onto the desk. It hit the mahogany wood with a sharp slap. He pinched the lower corner edge and flicked it open. Inside the folder, in crisp white paper, lay my CV. Covered in black-inked annotations.
At no stage did he glance down at it. Instead, he held my gaze and ploughed on.
“So, three years in Bristol, and you’re clearly a smart woman because you graduated with a First-Class degree. Only ten percent of Bristol Maths graduates got a First-Class degree last year, and only eighteen percent of all students from other disciplines. Like I said, though, statistics aren’t everything, so tell me about your time in the Matrix society.”
There was nothing about Matrix in my CV.
Heart thudding in my chest, I pursed my lips together. Alastair Montgomery had prepared for this interview, despite making me believe the opposite. He’d apparently memorised my CV, checked how my performance compared to my classmates, and then Googled me.
Latching onto my stunned silence, his lips curled into a devilish smile. “Don’t assume I haven’t done my own research, Sasha. Reading your CV was just the tip of the iceberg. Like everything in business, it’s a carefully constructed document, designed solely for the purpose of getting a job. I wouldn’t go as far as saying it’s misleading, but I notice you didn’t mention modelling for that calendar two years ago.”
Nervous heat crept up the back of my neck, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of breaking eye contact. This guy really had done his research. Luckily I’d already fucked this interview, because I’d be pissed if I missed out on the job due to appearing in that calendar.
“I didn’t think it would help to get me a job in this particular industry,” I said dryly. “I tailor my CV for each role I apply to, you see.”
He breathed out a soft laugh. “You’re applying for a Finance role, and you raised four figures’ worth of donations with that calendar. Sounds relevant to me.”
“It wasn’t just me. There were eleven other women, too.”
“Huh, I thought I read that you co-ordinated all the fundraising efforts, acted as the official spokesperson, and handled the accounts.”
“That’s true.”
“And to reassure you, I haven’t seen the photos—just an article about it. I liked the feminist angle. The female empowerment. Most of the staff here are women, and we’re a better business for it. Even if our revenues are plateauing.”
The sparkle returned to his eyes. How many times had I judged this man throughout our interview? His money. His arrogance. His lack of perspective on reality. And yet I’d done something in the past that a lot of people had judged me for, and he’d not batted an eyelid. He’d seen the true purpose behind that calendar. He’d looked beyond the photos and acknowledged the work and intellectual skillset instead.
For the first time since sitting down, I reached for the glass of water in front of me and took a tiny sip. The cool liquid slid down my throat and reset my racing thoughts.
“So, you want me to tell you about Matrix,” I said.
“I’d love you to tell me about Matrix.” He closed the folder and crossed one leg over the other. “And then we can talk about when you’re able to start.”
