Chapter 2 #2
She smiles knowingly.
"I've been here six years. I still stop and stare at least once a week."
For reasons I can't quite explain, that makes me like her.
People who still appreciate beauty after seeing it every day are usually worth knowing.
She leads me down the hallway before stopping outside a pair of walnut doors.
"Mr. Blackwell is just finishing another meeting. He'll only be another minute."
"No problem."
She opens the door, motioning for me to step inside.
The office beyond is unexpectedly inviting.
Not oversized.
Not ostentatious.
Warm wood shelves line one wall, filled with books rather than awards.
A seating area overlooks the skyline, while fresh flowers brighten an otherwise understated color palette of deep navy, cream, and walnut.
Whoever designed the room understood that wealth doesn't need to announce itself. It simply needs to feel effortless.
"Can I get you coffee? Tea? Water?"
"Water would be wonderful, thank you."
"I'll be right back."
As the door closes softly behind her, I take another slow breath.
This is it. The assignment officially begins now.
Emily returns a moment later carrying a chilled glass bottle of sparkling water and a crystal tumbler balanced effortlessly on a small walnut tray.
She places both on the coffee table in front of me with the kind of practiced grace that suggests hospitality has been thoughtfully woven into every part of the company culture.
"There you are."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure."
Before she can say anything else, another woman appears in the doorway carrying a slim tablet.
"Emily, they're finished."
Emily nods.
"Perfect timing."
She turns back to me with another warm smile.
"They're ready for you now."
I stand, smoothing the front of my navy pencil skirt out of habit rather than necessity.
My cream silk blouse still looks crisp despite the drive into the city, and I silently thank myself for choosing the navy blazer instead of the charcoal one hanging beside it in my closet.
It's tailored enough to make me feel polished without looking overly formal.
More importantly, it's comfortable. Interviews can stretch for hours, and I've learned long ago that confidence starts with feeling like myself rather than dressing for someone else's expectations.
Emily leads me down another hallway, this one noticeably quieter than the last. The offices become larger, the artwork a little more curated, the conversations behind closed doors almost inaudible.
Despite the prestige of the floor, there isn't an air of intimidation.
It feels lived in. People greet one another by first name.
An executive walking in the opposite direction pauses long enough to hold a door open for an assistant balancing two coffee trays before continuing toward the elevators.
Little moments like that matter.
Company culture rarely reveals itself during formal interviews. It lives in the seconds between them.
Emily stops outside another office, this one slightly smaller than the one I'd been waiting in.
She knocks once.
A familiar voice answers from inside.
"Come in."
Emily opens the door and gestures for me to enter.
"Sophie Callahan is here."
The office is flooded with natural light.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Manhattan skyline behind an expansive desk crafted from dark walnut, though it's the seating area near the windows that immediately draws my attention.
Instead of positioning guests across a desk—a subtle reminder of hierarchy—the room is arranged around two sofas facing one another with a low coffee table between them.
It feels more like the living room of an elegant home than the office of a corporate executive.
A man rises from one of the sofas the moment I step inside. He smiles easily. Genuinely.
"Sophie?"
"Yes."
He closes the distance between us with an outstretched hand.
"I'm Adrian Blackwell."
His handshake is firm without being performative, accompanied by the kind of smile that reaches his eyes almost immediately.
He's exactly as I'd expected from every interview and photograph I'd ever seen—tall, impeccably dressed, dark raven hair with blue eyes and a firm jawline.
He is effortlessly handsome—but photographs have a way of flattening people into polished versions of themselves.
In person, Adrian possesses something cameras struggle to capture: Ease.
He has the rare ability to make someone feel as though they've arrived exactly where they're supposed to be.
"It's nice to finally meet you," I say.
"You too."
He motions toward the seating area.
"Please. Sit wherever you'd like."
I choose the sofa opposite his while Emily quietly excuses herself, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Adrian settles comfortably into the sofa across from me, crossing one ankle over his knee.
"I hope the trip into the city wasn't too painful."
"It was surprisingly uneventful," I reply with a small smile.
"I think I got incredibly lucky with traffic."
He laughs. "Then you're already ahead of most people trying to get into Manhattan before lunch."
His easy humor immediately puts me at ease.
Grace warned me that Adrian Blackwell was the public face of the company, but she never mentioned how naturally conversational he was.
Some executives spend the first ten minutes of every meeting establishing authority, reminding everyone in the room exactly who they are.
Adrian doesn't seem interested in any of that.
Instead, he studies me for a moment before saying, "I've read several of your features."
That catches me completely off guard.
"You have?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
He nods. "I have."
"I'll admit I wasn't expecting that."
"Why not?" he asks with genuine curiosity.
I laugh softly. "Because I assumed someone on your communications team handled the research and gave you the highlights."
Adrian grins without the slightest hint of embarrassment.
"They did," he admits. "But I still read every article myself."
"So," I tease, "you had help."
"I absolutely had help," he says with a laugh.
"I'm not pretending otherwise. But I wanted to know who I was inviting into our company."
I tilt my head, studying him a little more carefully.
"And?" I ask.
"And I was relieved."
"Relieved?" I echo.
He leans back against the sofa, his expression becoming more thoughtful.
"I've turned down quite a few anniversary profiles over the years."
"I noticed."
"They all wanted the same thing," Adrian says.
"A celebration?" I offer.
He nods once. "Exactly. A commercial disguised as journalism."
I can't help smiling.
"That isn't what we're interested in."
"I'm glad to hear that," I tell him honestly.
"So am I."
For the first time since I'd entered his office, I believe he means it.
"I'd rather readers trust what you've written," Adrian continues, "than spend the entire article wondering how much of it came from our marketing department."
His words immediately remind me of something Grace said less than two hours ago. Either they've rehearsed remarkably well...or they genuinely believe the same thing. Adrian gestures toward the leather satchel resting beside my chair.
"I'm assuming you've already prepared a list of questions."
"I have several," I answer.
"I'm sure you do." He smiles. "I've been told you're thorough."
"I prefer prepared."
"Fair enough."
His gaze lingers briefly on my notebook before returning to me.
"You know," he says, "I promised myself I wouldn't start talking business the second you walked through the door."
"I appreciate that."
"So tell me something that isn't in your biography."
I blink.
"My biography?"
He chuckles.
"The one my assistant sent me yesterday."
I laugh.
"I wasn't aware I had one."
"Oh, everyone has one."
"I sincerely hope mine was short."
"It was."
"Good," I reply with exaggerated relief.
"I'd hate to think someone had uncovered all my embarrassing childhood stories."
"I don't know," Adrian says with a grin.
"Those usually make the best reading."
I find myself laughing again. The conversation feels remarkably effortless.
"So," Adrian says, settling back into the sofa once more, "who is Sophie Callahan when she's not interviewing people?"
The question catches me off guard. Not because it's too personal, because it isn't. Most executives spend the first meeting talking about themselves. Adrian has spent nearly ten minutes asking about me instead.
"I'm not nearly as interesting as your assistant probably made me sound."
"I doubt that."
"I read," I say with a shrug.
"A shocking revelation."
"I know. Very exciting."
He smiles.
"I was expecting something much more dramatic."
"I'm afraid my life is disappointingly ordinary."
"I don't believe that for a second."
I shake my head, smiling.
"I spend most weekends with a book, my camera, or wandering somewhere I've never been before."
"You like to travel?" Adrian asks.
"When I can."
"And what do you photograph?"
"People."
His eyebrows lift.
"Not landscapes?"
I shake my head.
"Landscapes are beautiful, but people tell better stories."
"They do," Adrian agrees after a thoughtful pause. "Landscapes are just quieter."
I smile.
"I like that."
"So do I."
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
The silence isn't awkward, it's comfortable.
Oddly comfortable. I'd expected polished corporate diplomacy, carefully rehearsed talking points, and just enough charm to get through an interview.
Instead, I feel like I'm having coffee with someone I've known much longer than twenty minutes. Eventually, Adrian breaks the silence.
"Grace mentioned you insisted on complete editorial independence before accepting the assignment."
"I did," I reply.
"I'm glad."
I study him carefully.
"That isn't the response I expected."
"I imagine it isn't."
He smiles, but there's sincerity behind it now.