Page 2 of The Unplanned Wedding

Something in my words seems to have struck home, for she nods slowly. "I suppose you have a point.” She sighs, “Your resume isn’t ideal. I’d have preferred someone with more relevant experience for this role, but we’re out of alternatives.”

I should feel slighted by her implication that I’m their last option, but I don’t care. If I get this opportunity, and that extravagant salary which comes with it, that's what matters.

She looks up from her device, reaches for her phone, and dials a number. When the person at the other end answers, she says, “Will you come in please?”

In seconds, the door opens and the young girl I passed at the desk outside the HR Manager’s office walks in.

“Zelda, will you show June to her workstation?” The HR lady puts away her device and turns to her screen.

"What do you mean?" I frown.

"You want the job, don’t you?" She toggles her mouse to wake up her computer.

I nod.

“It’s yours,” she responds without looking away from her screen.

"You mean?—"

"You start right away."

"Today?" I gape.I got the job?"But doesn’t he want to interview me?"

"Knox Davenport doesn’t interview his assistants; he’s too busy making money." She shakes her head. “Please bring in a photo ID and proof of residence tomorrow, so I can prepare the necessary paperwork.“ She begins to type rapid-fire, indicating she's done with me.

This woman needs a crash-course in etiquette, but my outrage pales in light of the fact I’m now gainfully employed. I was sure I’d botched the meeting, but apparently not. If I’m getting the position without having to interview with the boss, then hey, I’ll take it. Joy bubbles up in my chest.

My entire being feels like it’s glowing. I want to fist-pump the air but stop myself. Instead, I lower my chin and strive for a neutral voice. “Thank you, I won’t let you down.”

When she doesn’t reply, I hook my bag over my shoulder, rise to my feet and follow Zelda to the elevator, then up to the top floor of the building.

The doors open to a corridor and when I step on the carpet, my three-inch Jimmy Choo knockoffs sink into the plush surface. It’s like I’m floating on a cloud. And it’s so quiet, I can hear the sound of my heart beating. Or maybe, that’s because I'm nervous?

"This is the executive floor," Zelda tells me in a hushed voice. Her blonde curls frame her doll-like features. She’s dressed in a black dress that wouldn’t be out of place at a nightclub. In comparison, my skirt’s hemline falls below my knees and my jacket, which I thought smartened my get-up, makes me feel dowdy and overdressed. I shove those thoughts aside and pay attention to my surroundings.

There are glass-enclosed offices on either side of the corridor, with men and women focused on their computer screens or on their phones. In the center of the room are desks with more men and women busily typing away on keyboards. None of them look up as I pass. One of the women almost meets my eye then looks away.Huh?Maybe she was in the middle of something? I brush aside her reaction and follow Zelda to the double doors at the end of the corridor.

Unlike the other offices with glass walls and doors, these doors are made of wood, and the walls are made of concrete. Seems Mr. Knox Davenport relishes his privacy. There’s a definite do-not-disturb vibe radiating off of the closed doors to his office.

Zelda indicates the desk at the side. “This's yours."

A wave of happiness sweeps through me. I've hoped for this moment for so long. I've dreamed about a job in a nice office, where I’d be surrounded by industrious colleagues and a boss who’d encourage me, challenge me, and give me the chance to prove myself. But I never thought I’d achieve that position. I walk over and slide into the chair, then place my handbag on the desk.

"The password for the computer is on the post-it note." She gestures to where it’s stuck to the computer screen. "The kitchen is through that door.”

"Right." I key the password into the computer screen. It unlocks, and I find myself in an inbox. "The email address belongs to someone called Kelly," I point out.

She nods. "That would be his first assistant, who lasted for less than an hour. After that, we didn’t bother setting up a new email addresses because it felt like a waste of time.”

Right.

"There are a lot of unanswered emails," I say slowly. Over a thousand, to be precise.

"The last assistant quit three weeks ago. After that, we ran out of agencies to send us people, so—" The phone on the desk rings. I jump, then stare at the instrument on the desk.

"Are you going to answer that?" the woman asks. A thread of impatience runs through her tone.

I stare at the phone for a few more seconds—I don't even know what I'm supposed to say—then slowly reach for it. I lift the receiver, clear mythroat, but before I can speak a word, a dark male voice growls, "Bring me the reports for the sales meeting. Cancel my five p.m. Send a Tiffany’s bracelet and flowers to Rita."

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