Page 3 of The Fake Family Deal

“Thank you,” I say, taking a shaky breath, trying not to cry. I can’t let my mascara run right now. I’ve put makeup on for the first time in months — I don’t want to ruin it now.

I’m deadly serious about this job, you see. After all, I was great at being a PA in my last place. I might be a little rusty, but I’ve still got it. I can do this.

Still, it’s at times like this that I wish my mother was still alive. I know I sound like the world’s most pathetic person — single mother with no friends, no family, and no help. I’m tired all the time and I’m definitely out of my depth, and the most frequent adult conversations I have are with the grocery store self-checkout machine.

But that changes today. I’m not pathetic. And I’m not going to let my daughter suffer.

She’s going to the best daycare I could find within my budget, and she is going to be loved no matter what. I am going to walk in there and wow them. I have to get this job. Maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll become reality.

“I’ll let you know if anything happens,” Susan promises. “But she’ll have plenty of fun. If Lila was old enough to talk, she’d tell you so herself.”

“You’re very kind,” I say, swallowing hard again. I am not going to cry. I am not.

Susan places a hand on my arm and squeezes gently. “I’ve been exactly where you are, dear. I promise we’ll do everything we can to put your daughter at ease.”

I smile at Susan again, then my phone vibrates with the reminder I set earlier, the one to tell me that I really absolutely have to set off right now or I’m not going to make it. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I have to run.”

Susan nods and waves goodbye, and I catch a glimpse of her taking Lila inside as I run for my car.

Driving to the interview is a wrench because the whole time I can’t stop thinking about my baby. I just have to keep reminding myself that I’m doing this for her. I’m doing everything for her.

Doesn’t make this any easier though.

Ellis Inc. is a tall, imposing building that’s exactly as shiny on the inside as it is on the out. I’m certain that the reception desk can’t actually be gold-plated but it sure looks like it might be. I’m hit with all this grandeur as I step through the rotating door, and as I look around, I don’t get any less impressed. The cleaning bills for this place must be astronomical.

I take a few steadying deep breaths as I walk up to the reception desk, my shoes echoing on the marble flooring. I’m pretty sure it is genuine marble, too.

I knew that Ellis Whitlock was rich. Everyone does. This guy is famous for his fancy taste and horrible attitude. But despite his personal reputation, the company has a reputation for treating its employees well and paying them generously. I could really dowith a little bit of that in my life right now. So, even if I have to work for one of the most infamous men in the country, I think the benefits will be worth it.

At the very least I can’t let my neatly pressed skirt go to waste. I can’t remember the last time I wore a professional skirt like this. Honestly, I was kind of surprised that I still had one at all.

As I walk up to the desk, the receptionist smiles at me politely. She’s an incredibly well-done-up woman, her hair in a tight bun, her lips a sharp red, her eyes piercing.

“Hello,” I say awkwardly. “My name is Marina Finch. I’m here about the interview.”

“You’re late,” is all she says.

“I’m sorry?” I say, both as a question and an apology. Maybe Ellis’s strange attitude rubs off on everyone here and makes them all ice-cold.

The receptionist picks up the phone and has a hurried and seemingly coded conversation with someone. “They’ll come and get you presently,” she says, giving me that smile again.

“Thank you,” I reply, my heart pounding.

As promised, a man appears seconds later, approaching me in his sharp pinstripe suit and fashionable, gelled-back hair. “Miss Finch?” he says. I nod. “Follow me.”

He leads me to an elevator and presses a well-manicured finger to the call button. The doors slide open soundlessly, and we stand in silence for what feels like hours as we get whisked up to what I can only assume is the top floor. My heart leaps into my mouth at the idea of what might be waiting for me up there.

The elevator grinds to a halt, the doors open, and the man gestures for me to step out. I do so, then take one of the seats next to the closed meeting-room door when the man gestures to them. I smile thankfully and watch as he vanishes into the room.

What must be only a few seconds stretch to minutes in my head. I focus on my breathing.In and out. I can do this. I can.

The door opens again and a woman exits. I stand up nervously, steeling myself for whatever is about to be thrown at me.

“Miss Finch,” says the woman. She’s another well-turned-out woman in a sharp suit with killer eyeliner and a cutting frown.

“That’s me,” I say.

“Follow me.” It’s a command rather than a request.

---