Page 2 of Devour
I tilt the glass, swallowing the last of it content in a single, deliberate gulp, then slam it onto the desk, surprised it doesn’t shatter. My hand moves to the intercom, and my voice cuts through the room—sharp, ice-cold.
“Send her in. Now.”
CHAPTER ONE
Ariel
Ariel Lane, this is a formal confirmation of your scheduled interview with Falcone Financial—Tuesday, 9:00 AM sharp. The address and details are attached.
I peek around, trying not to feel intimidated by the other applicants. The woman sitting beside me, I saw her on my way in.
She’s tall and elegant, the kind of person who turns heads without trying. If looks are part of the selection criteria, she’s already halfway there.
Another applicant sits across from me, dressed in a sharp, expensive-looking suit. From her appearance alone, she seems like someone who belongs here, confident, polished, powerful.
I glance back down at my phone and reread the message. Then a third time. My fingers tremble around the cracked edges of the screen. Surely, this has to be a mistake. Me? Interviewing at Falcone Financial?
I don’t have the qualifications. Hell, I don’t even have a degree, unless juggling several part-time jobs counts as one. I had to drop out of college the day I found out I was pregnant. And just like that, every plan I had unraveled.
Noah came into the world screaming and perfect. My family walked out quietly and cruelly.
Since then, it’s been me against everything—rising rent, mounting bills, cheap food that never filled the fridge. I worked any job I could get. Waitressing. Cleaning.
One night I even considered dancing, until the manager looked at me like I was meat. Now, I serve drinks at Eden’s Club.
It’s not glamorous—hell, it’s anything but. But the tips are decent, and they pay more than minimum wage. I take what I can get because I have a son who needs medicine more than I need pride.
If I land this job, maybe just maybe I can stop working the late-night shifts at the club. The paycheck would keep the lights on, help with Noah’s treatment… and perhaps I could be at the hospital in time to kiss him goodnight.
Let’s not jinx it, I whisper under my breath, crossing my middle finger over my forefinger like some desperate prayer.
“Ms. Lane.”
A shrill voice yanked me out of my thoughts. I turned towards her. A red hair in six-inch heels and a dress the size of a napkin gave me a pointed look.
“Mr. Falcone will see you now.”
Mr. Falcone.
The name made my stomach twist. It was common enough. But something about it about this job feels off. Familiar in a way I can’t explain.
I smooth my hands down my black pencil skirt, tugging the hem even though it’s already perfectly in place. The blazer suddenly feels too tight across my shoulders, or maybe it’s just the weight of everything riding on this moment.
Click. Click. Click.
My heels echo across the marble floor with every step toward the private elevator. The interior is large and mirrored; I can see myself standing there in my three-piece outfit. Strands of hair have come loose from my messy bun.
I smooth them back and tuck some behind my ears. My palm is sweaty, so I rub it on my jacket.
My pulse won’t slow down. It’s hammering so hard it might crack my ribs. I keep telling myself it’s just an interview.Just a job. But it feels like I’m walking straight into the lion’s den.
The elevator pings.The doors slide open, and I step into a silence so thick; I can’t breathe through it.
“Mr. Falcone.” My lips shape the words like a secret prayer.
He doesn’t turn. Just stands there, his broad back to me, a thick cigar between his fingers. Smoke curls around his head like a halo—if the devil wore one.
Since he seems in no hurry to acknowledge me, I decide to study, him instead. He’s fucking hot in a black three-piece suit, tailored perfectly to his large, chiseled frame. His ass looks yummy in those pants.
