Vincent Samson was his name: a cold, cruel, businessman who distanced himself from everyone he came in contact with. He was an alleged womanizer, someone who couldn’t be trusted. And yet, Clara Rumpke found herself on the steps of his company’s headquarters. She still had bills to pay, and he had the money.
Despite the outside of the building being that of a prime example of modern 21st-Century architecture, seemingly nothing but glass, the inside was more…vintage. Clara couldn’t put it clearly into words: everything was wooden, sort of like the inside of the Titanic. Her eyes paid close attention to the secretary at the front desk, who was too busy filing her nails. Such a stereotype.
“Uhm, excuse me, miss,” she started. The secretary glared up at him.
“Here for that interview?”
“Mr. Samson will see you now then,” she said.
Clara nodded her head. “And what floor would his office and room be on?”
The secretary blinked before laughing, her high pitched voice catching the attention of the nearby workers.
“No one goes into Mr. Samson’s office besides Mr. Samson. He comes down here to see all his potential workers.” She used her nail file to point towards the door just by the women’s restroom. “You’ll be meeting him in there.”
“Why there of all places? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“It’s close to the women’s restroom so that if he doesn’t like you, you can cry your eyes out,” she said, her lips curled up in a sneer. Clara’s stomach lurched. Regardless, she made her way to the door. After some hesitation, and second thoughts about her life, she opened it.
Inside, a tall man, no more than thirty, was busy playing with his phone. The reflection of a video game bounced off his glasses. He didn’t even seem to notice the new arrival. Clara chewed on her lip. Did she dare say anything?
“Ah…h-hello, Mr. Samson…”
Yes, she dared.