Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 65054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65054 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
He looks at the mess on the floor, then at me. “Are you okay?”
His voice is low and calm. Not gentle, exactly, but also not rude despite his annoyed expression.
“Yes,” I say quickly, willing the conversation to end so I can get away from his piercing stare.
His eyes drop to my badge. “You’re on the wrong floor,” he says, almost as if he’s reprimanding me.
“Yes, I know,” I breathe out. “I followed someone off the elevator, and now I’m waiting—”
“Mr. Vieri, I’m sorry,” a woman cuts in before I can finish explaining. “They moved the Sterling meeting up, the packets are all wrong, and Anthony isn’t answering his phone.”
Mr. Vieri. As in Dominic Vieri. As in the man whose name is on the freaking building.
My stomach drops.
Can this day get any worse?
“Those packets?” Dominic Vieri asks as the three of us slowly look down at the mess on the floor.
I crouch down immediately and start gathering up papers, trying to sort them somehow.
“Which packets are wrong?” I ask the woman.
She blinks at me in surprise. “What?”
I lift one of the folders. “Are all of them wrong, or only some?”
She seems perplexed and annoyed that I’m asking her.
“I don’t know,” she admits slowly.
I nod and start stuffing papers back into the folders. Dominic Vieri certainly isn’t going to risk creasing his $5,000 suit to help.
I open the first folder just enough to read the top page.
Sterling Hospitality Acquisition.
Confidential.
Great. I’m already committing light corporate espionage. Then I realize the date is wrong.
“This one is old,” I say, holding up the folder to the woman.
Dominic Vieri says nothing.
I check three more.
“These two are old, too. This one is current. The current agenda mentions the revised labor projections.”
A young man with glasses appears behind the woman. “How do you know that’s the current version?”
“Because it has the correct date,” I tell him as patiently as I can manage.
He flushes and nods. I realize I should stop talking.
“There are supposed to be twelve,” the woman says, finally crouching beside me.
“There are eight here,” I tell her. “Four are correct, four are wrong.”
“Four missing,” she mutters.
“Where are the files?” I ask.
“Saved, but the conference room printer is down, and Anthony has the signed addendums.”
“Use another printer for the four missing packets. Pull tabs from the wrong ones. Print the addendums separately and slide them behind the agenda. No one will notice.”
The woman snatches up the wrong packets.
“Bruce, copy room. Now,” she snaps at the young man standing there with his mouth open.
Bruce runs like his life depends on it. I hand her the correct folders, then reach for my résumé. The top page is already in Mr. Vieri’s hand. He reads the top line.
“Sofia Bellini,” he reads out.
“Yes,” I say, standing. I smooth my blouse because I need something to do with my hands. “Again, I’m sorry. I should get to my interview.”
“What position are you interviewing for?”
“Junior administrative assistant. Hospitality division.”
He looks behind me, toward the elevators that still have not opened. “You’ll be late.”
“I’m aware,” I answer, flushing.
“Do you have executive support experience?”
“Some,” I admit. “Scheduling, vendors, client communication, basic office management. I’ve filled in where needed, but I haven’t had the title.”
“Why not?”
Because titles go to people who already know someone. Because I spent years taking whichever job kept the bills paid instead of building the kind of résumé people here would respect. Because my life has been one long exercise in being overlooked.
“Most companies want you to have three consecutive years of C-suite experience,” I answer honestly.
The woman beside me makes a sound like she is trying not to laugh. Dominic Vieri studies me. I force myself not to look away.
Finally, he says, “Come with me.”
My grip tightens around my folder. “I have an interview.”
“Not anymore.”
My stomach drops again.
“Please don’t cancel it. I know I overstepped, but I was trying to help.”
“You did help. Come with me, Ms. Bellini.”
He turns before I answer.
The woman gives me a look that says I should follow him. So I do.
His office is at the end of the hall, behind thick glass doors. It isn’t flashy, necessarily, but it’s ten times the size of any office I’ve ever worked in. His desk is a dark wood backed up against a wall of windows. I try not to gape at the incredible view.
He gestures to the chair across from his desk. I sit. He doesn’t.
“You handled that issue well,” he says, watching me.
“Thank you,” I answer nervously, not sure why he’s brought me here.
“You stayed calm under pressure, including your own personal agenda.”
“It was an easy organizational problem.” I shrug humbly.
“A problem that wasn’t your job to fix, but you did anyway.”
He leans against the front of his desk and folds his arms, looking down at me. “The job you came to interview for pays $62,000 a year.”