The Interview
Sammy-Jo Hart stood outside the glass doors of Blake & Cole Luxury Developments and seriously considered turning around.
Not because she couldn’t do the job.
She could do the job with one hand tied behind her back, a broken printer screaming in the corner, and three executives asking where their coffee was.
No, the job wasn’t the problem.
The problem was the building.
It was too shiny.
Too expensive.
Too full of people who looked like they drank cucumber water and said things like wellness retreat without laughing.
Sammy-Jo caught her reflection in the glass doors and sighed.
Black blouse. Black tailored trousers. Black ankle boots. Black blazer. Black handbag.
Safe. Slimming. Invisible.
That had been the idea, anyway.
Except Sammy-Jo had never been particularly good at invisible.
At five foot five, with curves that refused to be hidden and blonde hair that fell almost to her waist, she stood out whether she wanted to or not. Her hazel eyes were lined sharply, her lips painted a deep nude, and her expression said she would rather fight a bear than admit she was nervous.
She smoothed a hand over her blouse.
“Right,” she muttered to herself. “Worst case, they say no and I go home with my dignity and a meal deal.”
The receptionist looked up as Sammy-Jo walked in.
She was tiny, elegant, and wearing white.
Of course she was.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here for the personal assistant interview. Sammy-Jo Hart.”
The receptionist’s eyes flicked over her for half a second.
Sammy-Jo noticed.
She always noticed.
“Take a seat. Mr Blake is running late.”
“Shocking,” Sammy-Jo said before she could stop herself.
The receptionist blinked.
Sammy-Jo smiled sweetly and sat down.
The waiting area looked like nobody had ever spilled anything there in their life. Pale marble floors. Cream sofas. Gold-framed abstract art that probably cost more than her car. A glass coffee table held magazines about architecture, luxury travel, and women who seemed to survive entirely on iced coffee and cheekbones.
Sammy-Jo sat upright, crossed one black-booted ankle over the other, and tried not to fidget.
She had wanted this job for weeks.
The salary was better than anything she’d ever earned. The office was central. The role was demanding. The company was growing fast. It was exactly the kind of opportunity people told girls like her not to expect.
Girls like her.
Curvy girls.
Loud girls.
Girls who wore black because colour felt like a spotlight.
Girls who had spent years learning how to laugh before anyone else could.
“Miss Hart?”
Sammy-Jo looked up.
And there he was.
Ethan Blake.
Tall, blonde, tanned, and unfairly handsome in the kind of way that made people forgive bad manners before he even opened his mouth. His suit was dark navy and clearly expensive. His jaw looked like it had been carved by someone with a personal grudge against ordinary men.
His blue eyes swept over her.
Not rudely.
Worse.
Quickly.
Dismissively.
Sammy-Jo stood, spine straight.
“Mr Blake.”
His gaze paused on her black outfit, then moved to the folder in her hand.
“You’re here for the assistant position?”
“No, I just dress like this for fun and wander into corporate offices.”
The receptionist coughed.
Ethan’s eyebrow lifted.
Sammy-Jo’s stomach dropped.
Wonderful. Brilliant. Perfect. Sass before employment. Excellent strategy.
But Ethan only turned.
“My office.”
Notplease.
Notthis way.
Just two words and the expectation she would follow.
Sammy-Jo did, because unfortunately she needed rent more than she needed pride.
His office was enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A view over London. Grey furniture. No clutter. No warmth. Not even a mug with a stupid slogan on it.
A man’s office, she thought, who probably scheduled emotions for the fourth quarter.
“Sit,” Ethan said.
Sammy-Jo sat.
He took the chair behind his desk and opened her CV.
Silence stretched.
She watched his eyes move over the page. His expression didn’t change once.
“You’ve never worked in luxury property.”
“No.”
“You’ve never worked for a CEO.”
“No.”
“You’ve never managed international client schedules.”
“No.”
He looked up.
Sammy-Jo smiled.
“But I have managed three directors, two office moves, one lawsuit panic, an accounts department that believed filing was optional, and a Christmas party where the DJ got arrested.”
Ethan stared at her.
“So no,” she continued, “not luxury property. But I’m adaptable.”
His mouth twitched. Barely.
Then it vanished.
“This position is demanding. Long hours. High expectations. Confidential information. Difficult clients.”
“I read the job advert.”
“It also requires polish.”
There it was.
Small word. Sharp blade.
Sammy-Jo felt it slide under her skin.
Polish.
She had heard versions of it before.
Professional image.
Right fit.
Client-facing.
Smart presentation.
All polite ways of saying:not you.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her folder, but her voice stayed calm.
“I’m very good at my job, Mr Blake.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“You sound like you do.”
“I sound like someone who doesn’t have time to make the wrong hire.”
“Then don’t.”
The room went quiet.
Ethan leaned back in his chair.
Most people would have softened then. Smiled. Apologised. Made themselves smaller.
Sammy-Jo didn’t.
She had spent too many years making herself smaller in rooms where people still saw too much of her.
Ethan closed her CV.
“Why do you want this role?”
Because I’m tired of being underestimated.
Because I want more.
Because I need to prove I can walk into rooms like this and belong there.
Instead, she said, “Because I’m excellent under pressure, pathologically organised, and I don’t cry when executives shout.”
“I don’t shout.”
“Congratulations.”
His eyes narrowed.
She smiled again.
A knock came at the door before he could respond.
A young man poked his head in, pale and anxious.
“Sorry, Ethan. We’ve got a problem with the Richmond presentation.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“What problem?”
“The client’s here at twelve.”
“It’s at three.”
“No. Calendar says twelve. Boardroom two is double-booked, catering has gone to the wrong site, and Nina can’t find the revised investment pack.”
Ethan stood so fast his chair rolled back.
“For God’s sake.”
Sammy-Jo glanced at the clock.
11:07.
She looked at the anxious man. Then at Ethan. Then at the open laptop on the side table.
“Can I?”
Ethan looked at her as if she had suggested performing surgery with a teaspoon.
“Can you what?”
“Help.”
“This isn’t part of your interview.”
“No,” she said, standing. “But it might improve it.”
The anxious man looked desperate enough to accept help from a pigeon.
Ethan hesitated.
Sammy-Jo didn’t wait.
She moved to the laptop, opened the calendar, scanned it, then reached for the phone on the desk.
“What’s your name?” she asked the young man.
“Tom.”
“Tom, call reception. Tell them Richmond are VIP and to put them in the east lounge with coffee. Not boardroom two. Lounge buys us time and makes it look intentional.”
Tom blinked.
“Now, Tom.”
He moved.
Sammy-Jo clicked through the shared drive.
“Where’s Nina?”
“Marketing.”
“Tell her I need every file modified yesterday after four p.m. with Richmond in the title. Not the pretty version. The final version.”
Ethan watched her.
She ignored him.
“Catering?” she asked.
“Went to Canary Wharf.”
“Who booked it?”
“Me,” Tom said weakly.
“Poor choice, babe, but we move on.”
Tom made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.
Sammy-Jo picked up the phone.
“Hi, this is Sammy-Jo Hart from Blake & Cole. We have a priority catering redirect. Yes, I know. Tragic. I need the order sent to the Mayfair office instead, delivery before 11:45.”
Pause.
“No, not possible isn’t helpful. Whatispossible?”
Another pause.
“Lovely. Sandwich platters, fruit, pastries, sparkling water, coffee. Invoice Blake & Cole. Put urgent on it and I’ll personally tell Mr Blake you saved his morning.”
She hung up.
Ethan’s expression was unreadable.
Sammy-Jo found the revised investment pack in under three minutes.
“It was in the archive folder,” she said. “Which is ridiculous, by the way. Whoever named these folders needs counselling.”
Tom gave a nervous laugh.
She printed the pack, emailed a copy to Ethan, moved the meeting location, sent a holding message to the client, and created a revised schedule before 11:25.
Then she turned back to Ethan.
“There. Your twelve o’clock is now an exclusive pre-meeting reception in the east lounge, followed by the presentation at twelve-thirty in boardroom one. Catering arrives in twenty minutes. Revised pack is in your inbox and printing. Tom is traumatised but alive.”
Tom nodded quickly.
“Very alive.”
Ethan said nothing.
Sammy-Jo folded her arms.
“Was that polished enough?”
Tom suddenly became fascinated by the floor.
Ethan’s gaze settled on her.
For the first time since she had walked in, he really looked at her.
Not at the black clothes.
Not at the curves.
Not at the version of her he had already decided she was.
Her.
Sammy-Jo hated how much she wanted that to matter.
Finally, Ethan spoke.
“Tom. Leave us.”
Tom disappeared like a man escaping prison.
The door clicked shut.
Ethan returned to his chair, but he didn’t sit. He stood behind his desk, hands resting on the surface, eyes fixed on her.
“You’re very direct.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I imagine.”
“Careful, Mr Blake. I’m still deciding whether I want to work for you.”
His mouth twitched again.
This time, she was sure of it.
“You think you have a choice?”
Sammy-Jo lifted her chin.
“I always have a choice.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Interest, maybe.
Annoyance, definitely.
“Your references are strong,” he said.
“I know.”
“You’re qualified.”
“I know that too.”
“You’re also argumentative.”
“I prefer responsive.”
“Difficult.”
“Efficient.”
“Unfiltered.”
“Honest.”
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Then Ethan picked up her CV again.
“The salary is as advertised. Hours are officially eight-thirty to five-thirty, unofficially whatever the day requires. You’ll report directly to me. I expect discretion, accuracy, and availability.”
Sammy-Jo’s heart kicked.
Was he—
“You start Monday.”
She kept her face calm through sheer force of will.
“Try not to sound too excited about it.”
Ethan’s eyes flickered.
“Don’t make me regret this, Miss Hart.”
Sammy-Jo smiled, slow and sweet.
“Oh, Mr Blake,” she said, picking up her bag. “I’m usually the thing people regret underestimating.”
And with that, dressed head to toe in black, Sammy-Jo Hart walked out of his office with the job.
She made it all the way to the lift before she let herself grin.
