Chapter 31
LILA
I change into Tessa's borrowed suit in the cramped bathroom stall of the library—struggling to zip up without catching the silky blouse.
Outside the stall, I check myself in the mirror.
The polished version of Lila Marks stares back at me, but underneath I'm still the bartender who can spot a bad tipper from across the room.
"You've got this," I mutter, straightening my shoulders.
In the Uber, the driver keeps glancing at me in the rearview. Yeah buddy, women in suits exist, shocking development. I ignore him and mentally run through potential interview questions.
I tap my foot nervously as we inch through Midtown traffic. Ahead, the Financial District waits for me.
When I step out of the Uber, I stare up at the building. Inside, editors will decide if I'm worth taking a chance on. If I belong in their world of bylines and breaking news instead of memorizing drink orders.
I go in, repeating my personal mantra: You survived New Orleans. You can survive anything.
I follow the instructions I received by email. The appointment is in a different place than last time. The elevator takes me to the 32nd floor.
The receptionist smiles professionally, a different one from last time. "Ms. Marks? You're early."
"Better early than sorry," I say, then mentally kick myself. 'Early than sorry?' Did I really just mangle that cliché?
She doesn't seem to notice. "Please have a seat."
I sit ramrod straight on the edge of a sleek leather chair, going over my portfolio one more time.
This internship is my ticket out of late-night bar shifts.
My chance to write stories that matter. I'm not messing this up.
I remember my phone and dig it out, thumbing the power button until it dies with that unsatisfying little vibration.
Can't have it blaring some embarrassing ringtone in the middle of my interview, like that time my dad called during a final exam, his custom tone ("When The Saints Go Marching In") echoing through the silent classroom. Nope. Not happening today.
I shove the device into the bottomless pit that is my purse, burying it beneath wadded receipts, half-empty packs of gum, and about seventeen loose pens I've accidentally stolen from various establishments.
Deep enough that even if I wanted to check it—which I absolutely will if it's within reach—I'd have to make enough noise to alert the entire floor during my excavation attempt.
The receptionist lifts her phone and whispers something I can't quite catch. She glances at me, her smile tightening at the corners. Something cold slithers down my spine.
"They'll be with you shortly," she says, then returns to her computer, the click of her keyboard unnaturally loud in the silent reception area.
I look around. Where is everyone? It's so quiet and… empty. Like a movie set after the actors have gone home.
The elevator dings behind me, but nobody steps out when the doors slide open. They simply close again with a soft hush that makes my skin prickle.
Get it together, Marks. It's probably just lunch hour or something.
But it's not even 10:30 AM.
The AC kicks on with a mechanical groan that makes me jump. Jesus, I'm wound tight. Maybe it's all the caffeine and sugar I consumed earlier. Or maybe it's the way the receptionist keeps watching me when she thinks I'm not looking.
"They're ready for you," she announces, clicking her pen shut with an air of finality.
She rises from her desk, heels tapping across the marble floor, and gestures toward a heavy wooden door to the right. I grab my portfolio, smoothing my borrowed suit one last time.
"Good luck," she says, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as she opens the door.
I step inside, my rehearsed introduction dying on my lips as I scan the empty conference room. Long wooden table, eight leather chairs, water pitcher with perfectly aligned glasses—but zero people.
What the actual hell?
I turn to ask the receptionist what's going on, but the door clicks shut with a sound that feels way too final. Why would she bring me to an empty room?
The hair on the back of my neck stands up.
I reach for the door handle, already picturing myself making some excuse about needing to reschedule.
Before my fingers touch the handle, a door at the opposite end of the room swings open.
Brian Langford steps through, looking every inch the finance bro in his tailored suit, his smile as practiced as a knife thrower's aim.
"Lila Marks," he says, my name sounding wrong in his mouth. "So glad you could join us today."
My stomach drops like I've just watched someone drop a full bottle of top-shelf whiskey. Where's the panel of interviewers? Where's Vanessa Holt? This isn't right.
I force my face into what I hope resembles professional interest rather than the internal ohshitohshitohshit currently running through my brain.
"Mr. Langford," I manage. "I was expecting the interview panel from last time."
He closes the door behind him, shutting us in together. "Oh, no. The final round is more... intimate. One-on-one."
The way he says "intimate" makes me want to douse myself in hand sanitizer.
"Have a seat, Lila. We have so much to discuss about your... potential," he adds.
Everything in me freezes as Brian takes a step closer. That tiny voice in my head—the one that got me through countless job interviews before—tries to rationalize. 'This is normal. Big companies do one-on-one final interviews all the time.'
But that voice sounds suspiciously like the one that whispered 'He's just being nice' when Mr. Colton first texted me after hours.
"Actually, I need to leave," I say, turning toward the door I came through. My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the handle.
It doesn't budge.
"Is there a problem, Lila?" Brian's voice is smooth, reasonable, the same tone Mr. Colton used when I questioned why his office door needed to be locked during our 'special coaching sessions.'
I rattle the handle harder. "This door's stuck. Can you open it, please?"
"We haven't even started your interview." He steps closer, cologne wafting toward me—expensive, subtle, suffocating. "I thought you were serious about journalism."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "I am, but I need to reschedule. Family emergency." The lie falls flat even to my own ears.
"You seem distressed." His concerned expression belongs on a pharmaceutical commercial about anxiety medication. "Let me get you some water."
"I don't want water. I want you to open this goddamn door." My bartender voice slips out, the one I use when assholes try to argue their way into another shot after I've cut them off.
Brian's perfect eyebrows lift slightly. "There's no need for that tone. I'm trying to help you."
I press my back against the door, putting maximum distance between us. "Then help by opening the door."
"Lila, you're being unreasonable." His smile tightens at the edges. "This is standard procedure for our final candidates."
Standard procedure my ass.
"Let me out now, or I'm calling for help." I dig in my purse for my phone, remembering too late that I turned it off. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Brian walks calmly toward me as my dig in my stupid purse, finding nothing but pens.
"My boyfriend is waiting downstairs," I lie. "He knows exactly where I am."
"Dane, is it? No, he's not. I made sure you arrived alone."
The floor seems to tilt under my feet. How could he know about Dane?
I freeze for moment.
"Yeah, I know about him. Private Detective Dane Wolfe. Ex-marine. Currently surveilling me for my wife." He adjusts his cuffs, still approaching.
My mind races, remembering my conversation with Dane this morning. The missing freshman girl! Oh, God!
"Open this door right now," I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds despite the terror clawing up my throat. My hand finally connects with my phone inside my purse. I press the start button and pretend to rummage some more.
Brian's eyes flick down to my purse, his expression hardening like he knows exactly what I'm trying to do. Screw this. I pivot, slamming my foot against the door repeatedly, my heels making a satisfying thud with each hit.
"LET ME OUT! SOMEONE HELP ME!" My voice echoes through the room, throat burning with each scream.
Nothing. No running footsteps, no concerned colleagues. Just silence and Brian's irritating sigh like I'm some toddler throwing a tantrum in the candy aisle.
The receptionist. Of course. She knew exactly what she was bringing me into. What kind of woman sets up another woman like this? What kind of sick operation is Veritas running?
"Nobody can hear you," Brian says, all pretense of charm evaporating. "This room is soundproofed for... sensitive interviews."
"Fuck you, asshole."
"Look, the sooner you calm down, the easier this will be."
I dart around the conference table, putting solid mahogany between us. Brian's lips curl into a wolfish grin. Not the good kind of wolf, like Dane. The rabid, needs-to-be-put-down kind.
"We can do this the hard way if that's what you want," he says, loosening his tie like we're negotiating happy hour specials instead of my safety. "I enjoy a challenge."
The way he says 'challenge' makes my skin crawl.
I glance down at my purse. Has my phone turned on yet? Time to check. I need 911. Quickly, I pull it out, glancing down to check the screen. In the same instant, Brian launches himself across the table like some deranged panther. The pitcher tips, spilling water. Glasses crash, breaking.
His weight slams me against the wall, knocking the air from my lungs. My phone clatters to the floor as his hand closes around my throat.
"Now," he whispers, "let's discuss your... qualifications."