Page 6 of Captured By the Bratva

I’ve done my best to look capable for every interview. It hasn’t worked. Maybe it’s the scar on my cheek. Perhaps it’s the sense of desperation.

I can’t even get a job as a waitress, the only thing I’m qualified to do. They all say the same thing. We’ll be in touch. Spoiler alert, the only ones who get in touch are the scammers.

The receptionist behind the desk glances up, her voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. “Catherine Taylor?”

I wince at the sound of my full name. Only my mother called me Catherine, normally just before slapping me.

I snap to attention, my heart pounding. “Cathy. Yes, that’s me.”

She gives a small, polite smile, though I can’t tell if it’s genuine or just part of the job. “Ms. Grant will see you in a few minutes. She’s just finishing up a call.”

She turns back to her computer. I take a deep breath, the ache in my leg reminding me why I’m here. My medical debt isn’t going anywhere. The weight of it presses down on me as I think about all the bills stacked up in my shitty illegal sublet.

Since I got to New York, I’ve taken whatever work I can find, a week here, a day there, scraping together enough to pay for the damp basement room I’m staying in. Most of my food is out of dumpsters. Same with my clothes.

I don’t even know why I came here. Did I think my father would just pop up out of the crowd and recognize me? Beg my forgiveness for not being part of my life up to now? God, I’m stupid.

Didn’t have to be this way,my mind whispers.Could have stayed with Jimmy, stopped having morals you can’t afford.

I won’t go back to him, no matter what. All I need is a steady job and I can start sorting my life out.Please, make this be the one.

The receptionist’s voice cuts through my thoughts again, snapping me back to the moment. “Ms. Taylor, Ms. Grant is ready for you. Straight through that door.”

I straighten up, trying to ignore the tremor in my hands as I stand, my leg aching. I smooth down my blazer, and give a quick nod. “Thank you.”

I walk into an office that feels worlds away from the sterile reception area. It’s warm, with mahogany shelves lining the walls, filled with neat rows of files, books, and framed certificates.

A large poster of the Kremlin hangs behind the desk, lending the room an exotic elegance. A small arrangement of fresh smelling white flowers in a simple glass vase brings a gentle brightness to the space.

A woman sits at the desk, flipping through a file that I assume must be mine. She’s in her early forties, tall and composed, with a sharply tailored charcoal-gray pantsuit that fits her perfectly.

Her straight black hair is pinned back, not a single strand out of place, and her green eyes, deep-set and keen, flick over me with a quick, assessing look before she closes the file.

“Ms. Taylor,” she says, her voice calm and businesslike as she gestures to the chair in front of her desk. “I’m Amanda Grant. Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you.” I sit down, smoothing my skirt over my knees and trying to ignore the way my leg aches as I settle into the chair. She watches me, appraising but reserved, her gaze giving nothing away.

She taps the file. “I understand you’re looking for work?”

“Yes.” I clear my throat, trying to sound composed. “I can start straightaway if that helps?”

She nods, glancing down at her notes. “I see here that you’re interested in writing in your spare time?”

“Yes,” I say, feeling a little embarrassed. “That’s always been a goal of mine, though I’m not in a place to pursue it full-time yet.”

“What kind of writing?”

“Thrillers mostly.”

“Have you had anything published?”

“Oh, I’m not quite at that stage just yet.”

She studies me for a moment, and her eyes soften just a touch. “Your situation isn’t unique. We often work with clients who’ve gone through transitions and need to find solid ground.” Her gaze returns to my file. “Your mother raised you on her own?”

I frown. “I don’t remember writing that on the form.”

“Father?” Amanda asks, ignoring my comment.

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