The Only Voice I Hear

Rolling Rock

Clara was on her way to her interview, walking fast.

Riiiip.

A faint, sharp sound. She froze instantly. A chill crept across her skin where the fabric had torn. Clara looked down and cursed under her breath.

Her bag’s sharp zipper had snagged her stockings, leaving a long rip running up her thigh. The perfect image she had carefully kept up shattered in an instant.

This was such an important interview. How could she make such a rookie mistake?

Her eyes scanned the corridor quickly until she spotted a door left slightly ajar. “Thirty seconds, that’s all I need,” she muttered to herself, slipping inside.

The lounge was dimly lit, with wall sconces casting a soft, gentle glow. A rich scent of cedarwood surrounded her. It was cold, oppressive, and unmistakably masculine.

Clara kicked off her heels and balanced on one foot, lifting her skirt. Her fingers hooked into the torn stocking, and she hurried to peel it off. Just as she had pulled it halfway down:

Click.

A door at the back of the room swung open.

Clara froze, unable to move a muscle.

A figure emerged from the shadows. His white shirt was buttoned all the way to the top, his cuffs casually rolled up.

He was tall and imposing, his presence so strong that the small room seemed barely able to contain his broad shoulders and back. His aura was overwhelming. His jawline was sharp and cold, his eyes sharp and deep, and his demeanor was stern and controlled.

Clara stood dead still, one leg exposed, her skirt bunched messily at her waist. Her leg was long and slender, the kind of sight that was hard to look away from.

The man’s expression was indifferent. His gaze lowered slowly, sweeping over her exposed leg with predatory intensity. His eyes flickered briefly over her tense, bitten red lips before finally settling on her blushing face.

His gaze was ice cold, yet it sent a wave of heat across her skin.

“I’m sorry. I thought no one was in here,” Clara’s voice came out tight. She reached out in a panic to pull her skirt down and fix her clothes.

In her haste, she fumbled and slammed her shoulder against a solid wood cabinet. A sharp pain shot through her, and she couldn’t help but gasp.

The man walked toward her, step by step. The light behind him made him look even more attractive, and Clara’s heart raced.

The cold scent of cedarwood surrounded her. He didn’t offer to help her; instead, he walked right past her toward the door. He raised his eyes slightly, and his low, gravelly voice echoed slowly:

“This is not your dressing room. Don’t think that pulling stunts like this will get you the job. Try your luck elsewhere.”

A wave of intense shame washed over her.

She bowed her head and apologized softly, “I am terribly sorry, sir,” sounding perfectly obedient.

The man let out a cold, mocking scoff and gripped the doorknob.

But the moment he turned away, her mask of docility shattered. Clara stared daggers at his broad back, her face twisted with anger. She clenched her fists, her heart filled with resentment.

Who do you think you are? You think I’m seducing you? You didn’t even help me just now, and then you mocked me. What an impolite, ungentlemanly jerk.

The man’s body stiffened violently. His fingers tightened around the doorknob until his knuckles turned white. He stood frozen, as if struck by a lightning bolt.

He had clearly heard a woman’s voice. It was a voice appearing out of thin air, inside his own mind.

He spun around abruptly.

The sudden move caught Clara off guard. Her look of indignant rage hadn’t faded in time, and for a split second, she looked completely exposed.

At the critical moment, she instantly switched to a look of innocent confusion. Her eyes widened, and her tone became sweet and soft: “Sir, is there something else?”

The man narrowed his eyes, staring fixedly at her. Clara’s lips were pressed shut, her expression one of utter bewilderment, showing no sign of anything unusual.

He frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose, dismissing it as hallucinations from staying up late. He cast one last cold glance at Clara before pushing the door open and walking out, slamming it shut behind him.

“Narcissist,” Clara whispered under her breath.

She simply took off the ruined stockings, stuffed them into her bag, touched up her lipstick, composed herself, and walked calmly toward the waiting area.

In the lounge, the other interviewees sat on soft sofas. Emily Smith, dressed in full glam with a designer bag, looked up and smirked.

This woman was her former college classmate. They hadn’t gotten along back then, and by some cruel coincidence, they had ended up at the same company.

“Clara, you look a bit of a mess...” Emily said, intentionally raising her voice, her eyes scanning her up and down.

Although shocked to see her, Clara remained calm. She sat down, opened her resume, and didn’t even give the other woman a second glance.

“Don’t worry about me. Just focus on your own interview.”

Her tone was cool and indifferent.

Emily’s face flushed red, and just as she was about to snap back, a staff member called her name. She glared at Clara, clicked her heels, and hurried into the interview room.

Ten minutes later, Emily walked out, looking like her soul had left her body.

The arrogance was gone, replaced by a deathly pale face and teary, red rimmed eyes. She fled in a panicked hurry without saying a word.

The waiting area fell into a dead silence.

Clara closed her folder. She was next. Her fingertips gripped her resume so tightly the paper wrinkled. Her heart pounded in her chest, and the room was filled with the tense, hushed whispers of the other candidates.

“Clara Bennett, please enter.”

The staff member’s voice broke the silence. Clara stood up, smoothed her blazer, and walked forward, her heels striking the floor with confident, steady strides.

When she reached the door, she took a breath and knocked three times.

“Come in,” a low, deep voice replied.

She pushed the door open. The room was brightly lit and slightly blinding. Three interviewers sat behind a long table. Clara scanned them quickly, and her gaze suddenly fixed, her footsteps faltering for a split second.

The man from the lounge was leaning back lazily in his chair.

His white shirt remained crisp, and his long fingers twirled a fountain pen. The rich scent of cedarwood was even more intense here, making her chest feel tight.

The man she had just been mentally roasting was the man with all the power at RollingRock: the CEO, Kian Voss.

The shock hit her like a punch to the chest, but she didn’t let it show. She dug her nails into her palms, using the sharp pain to regain her composure. She straightened her back, nodded politely, and spoke in a steady, neutral tone.

“Good afternoon, everyone. I am Clara Bennett.”

She took her seat, hands folded neatly on her lap, her posture elegant and professional.

The interview began. The interviewers fired questions about her resume and past work history. Clara answered fluently and logically, describing her experience coordinating complex schedules and handling high pressure work. Throughout the entire process, she remained calm, composed, and exuded professional confidence.

The HR manager leaned forward slightly, a probing smile on his face, and threw a high pressure trick question at her.

“Suppose Mr. Voss urgently needs to negotiate a deal tomorrow and requires a two-year business report within an hour. Meanwhile, the Marketing Department sends over a top secret document, and a partner calls in a rage, insisting on speaking to the CEO immediately. How do you prioritize these? This job involves constant overtime, being on call at night, and sacrificing your personal time. Why should we believe you can handle it?”

Clara didn’t hesitate. She answered calmly: “First, I would secure the top secret document in a locked drawer. That takes ten seconds. Next, I would answer the partner’s call, politely inform them that the CEO is in an emergency meeting, and promise that a designated person will call them back with a resolution within ten minutes to calm them down. For the remaining time, I would focus entirely on organizing the business data, distilling the core priorities, and finishing efficiently to save the CEO valuable time.”

She paused, looking Kian straight in the eye, her presence steady and resolute.

“As for my ability to handle pressure, I have always kept my private life separate from my work. In my previous job, my supervisor changed travel plans multiple times, often finalizing itineraries in the middle of the night, yet I always arrived at the venue on time. Nighttime notifications do not faze me. I simply need to clarify the core priorities and give my all to complete the task.”

She leaned in slightly. “The core responsibility of a CEO assistant is never blind obedience or flattery. It is to share the burden of complex matters, filter out useless distractions, and allow the CEO to focus entirely on core decision making. That is the value of my work.”

The room fell silent, except for the faint scratching of pens on paper.

Kian, who had been silent, finally moved. He stopped spinning his pen, looked up at her, and then looked down to jot a few lines in his notebook.

The HR manager looked at Kian, seeking his opinion. Kian raised his eyes slightly and gave a faint nod.

“Clara, the interview concludes here. We will notify you of the results via email. You may go now,” the HR manager said with a smile.

Clara’s heart sank. She had answered flawlessly, yet hadn’t received a single word of praise. There was only a cold instruction to wait. She stood up and thanked them: “Thank you for your time.”

The moment the door closed behind her, she let out a long breath. Her palms were soaked in cold sweat, and her tense muscles finally relaxed.

Walking through the hallway, she passed a full length glass mirror. She looked sharp and professional, but her inner anxiety remained. She stopped to straighten her hair and clothes, whispering a pep talk to herself.

“To be honest, I was impeccable in there. If they don’t hire me, it’s their loss.”

She was so lost in encouraging herself that she didn’t notice the approaching footsteps until that familiar scent of cedarwood hit her again.

Clara froze.

She turned around stiffly, her face instantly turning bright red.

Kian Voss stood two steps away, heading toward the elevator. His brow was furrowed in visible impatience. Evidently, every word of her self encouragement had fallen right into his ears.

She was so embarrassed she didn’t know what to do. “I... I was just venting by talking to myself.”

Kian said nothing. His deep, dark eyes locked onto hers for a long moment before he brushed past her.

Clara didn’t dare linger. She turned and fled, the rapid, clattering sound of her heels echoing down the hall.

Once in the taxi, she dialed her best friend, her emotions on the verge of a breakdown.

“Sophia! The interview went super well, but that man I messaged you about. The one I ran into in the lounge? He’s the CEO! And then he caught me being a narcissist! I’ve been social-death-ed!”

“Get over here right now! Tell me everything from start to finish!” Sophia shouted on the other end.

Clara hung up the phone, a faint smile appearing on her face. She had given it her absolute best, and she was satisfied with her answers. As for the final result, she could only wait.