The Wrong Interview
The rain-slicked streets of downtown reflected the gray November sky as Cassidy Montclair stepped into the Ashby Global lobby. The building rose forty-seven stories above the financial district, all glass and steel and the kind of architectural arrogance that came with a nine-figure quarterly earnings report. She smoothed the collar of her blazer—a thrifted Saint Laurent that had cost her three months of scrimping—and approached the security desk.
“Cassidy Montclair. Ten AM with Mr. Ashby’s office.”
The guard, a man in his fifties with the weary eyes of someone who’d seen too many desperate applicants, scanned his tablet. “Forty-seventh floor. Ms. Vance will meet you at the elevator bank.”
The elevator ride was silent except for the hum of cables and the soft chime as she passed each floor. Cassidy counted them in her head, a nervous habit she’d developed during the two years of unemployment that had followed her divorce. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. She’d been a senior designer at Sterling & Co. before the layoffs. Before the bank had taken the apartment. Before she’d had to move Noah into that cramped two-bedroom in Ridgewood with the broken radiator and the landlord who smelled like stale whiskey.
Thirty-one. Thirty-two.
The elevator doors opened onto a reception area that looked like it had been designed by someone who hated comfort. White marble floors. A single minimalist desk where a woman in a charcoal suit sat with the precise posture of someone who’d never had to worry about rent. Behind her, a wall of windows showcased the city spread out like a circuit board, all cold geometry and ambition.
“Miss Montclair?” The woman stood. “I’m Kara Vance, Mr. Ashby’s executive assistant. He’ll see you now.”
Cassidy followed her down a hallway lined with abstract art—paintings that probably cost more than her mother’s house in Ohio. The boardroom at the end was all dark wood and glass walls, a space designed to intimidate. And there, at the head of a table that could seat twenty, sat Caden Ashby.
He didn’t look up when she entered.
She’d seen him once before, three years ago at a charity gala she’d attended with her ex-husband. Caden Ashby had been the kind of man you noticed in a crowd—tall, broad-shouldered, with the sharp features of someone who’d been carved from granite rather than born. He’d been surrounded by investors that night, all of them leaning in like satellites orbiting a sun. She’d watched him from across the room, nursing a glass of champagne she couldn’t afford, and felt the strange pull of recognition. Not because she knew him. But because she’d seen that cold, calculating look before—in her father, the night he’d walked out.
Now, sitting in his boardroom, Cassidy felt that same pull. Only this time, she was on the other side of his attention.
“Sit.” He didn’t look up from the tablet in his hands.
She sat.
The silence stretched for nearly two minutes. Cassidy counted the seconds in the beat of her own pulse. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. The air in the room was too cold, the kind of aggressive air conditioning that came with money. She could see her breath if she looked closely enough.
“Your portfolio is competent.” Caden set the tablet down and finally raised his eyes. They were gray, the color of winter storms, and they swept over her with the dispassionate efficiency of a scanner. “Three years at Sterling. Six months at a boutique firm before that. Then a gap.”
“I had a child.”
He didn’t react. “You’re applying for the senior creative director position. That’s a step down from your previous role.”
“Sterling downsized their entire creative division. I’ve been freelancing since the layoffs.” She kept her voice steady, even though her palms were slick with sweat. “I’m looking for stability.”
“Stability.” He said the word like it was a foreign concept. “The creative director at Ashby Global works eighty-hour weeks. Travel. The kind of pressure that cracks people who aren’t built for it. Why should I hire you?”
*Because I have a son who needs to eat. Because my ex-husband disappeared three years ago and left me with nothing but a stack of unpaid bills and a child who asks why Daddy doesn’t call. Because I’m drowning, Mr. Ashby, and this job is the only life raft I can see.*
“Because I’m good,” she said instead. “And because I don’t break.”
Something flickered in his eyes—interest, maybe, or the recognition of a kindred spirit. He leaned back in his chair, studying her with that same unsettling intensity. The clock on the wall ticked forward. Eleven forty-eight.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Cassidy ignored it. Caden Ashby didn’t seem to notice, his attention still fixed on her resume, the silence stretching like a wire pulled taut.
The phone buzzed again. And then again.
“Excuse me,” she said, her voice tight. “I need to check this.”
His jaw didn’t tighten—she wouldn’t give herself credit for noticing that—but his eyes narrowed. “We’re in the middle of an interview, Miss Montclair.”
“I understand. I just—” She pulled the phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen.
Three texts from Petra.
*Blackthorn men were at Noah’s school again.*
*They asked about you. Said they had a message from Dorian.*
*Cassidy, they’re parked outside. I have him. We’re at the library. Call me.*
The blood drained from her face. She could feel it, the cold rush of panic that started in her chest and spread outward like ice forming on a lake. The Blackthorns. Grant Blackthorn, the patriarch, who’d made her ex-husband’s debts his own. Dorian, his son, who’d cornered her in a parking garage six months ago and whispered promises that sounded like threats.
*You owe us, Cass. That money didn’t just disappear. We’ll find a way to collect.*
She stood up, pushing her chair back so fast it scraped against the marble floor. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
“Miss Montclair.”
She was already halfway to the door, her mind racing through the logistics. The library was twelve blocks away. She could take the train, be there in twenty minutes. But what if they followed her? What if Dorian had decided to stop playing games?
“Miss Montclair, sit down.”
His voice cut through the fog, sharp and commanding. She turned, her hand on the door handle, and found him standing now, his full height eclipsing the window behind him. He moved around the table with the fluid grace of someone who’d never had to apologize for taking up space.
“I can’t stay,” she said. “There’s an emergency.”
“Your son.”
The words stopped her cold. She stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. “How did you know I have a son?”
“Kara does background checks on all serious candidates. Your son’s name is Noah. He’s eight years old. He attends P.S. 87 in Ridgewood.” He said it without inflection, the way he might recite a quarterly projection. “The men who are waiting for him belong to Grant Blackthorn.”
Cassidy’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint. “You know Grant Blackthorn?”
“Everyone in this city knows Grant Blackthorn. The question is why the head of a criminal enterprise is interested in a graphic designer from Queens.”
She should have walked out. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to run, to disappear into the city and never look back. But something in his voice—that cold, measured tone—held her in place. He wasn’t threatening her. He was assessing her, the way a predator assessed prey to see if it was worth the chase.
“It’s not me they’re interested in,” she said. “It’s my ex-husband. He owed them money. A lot of it. And when he disappeared, they decided I was the next best thing.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand. Plus interest.” She laughed, a bitter sound that echoed in the sterile room. “I’ve been trying to pay it off, but it’s like trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon. They keep adding fees. Keep finding new ways to make my life hell.”
Caden walked to the window, his back to her. For a long moment, he said nothing. The city hummed below them, oblivious to the woman trembling in his boardroom.
“I have a proposal,” he said finally.
“I’m not sleeping with you.”
He turned, one eyebrow raised. “That’s not what I was going to propose. Though I appreciate your directness.” He walked back to the table, pulling out a chair and gesturing for her to sit. “I’ve been looking for someone with your… background for months. Someone who can navigate the world that Grant Blackthorn operates in. Someone who knows how they think.”
“I’m not a spy.”
“I’m not asking you to be. I’m asking you to work for me. The creative director position is real. So is the salary. And so are the resources my company has for dealing with… difficult clients.” He sat down across from her, those gray eyes boring into hers. “I’ll give you a job. I’ll give you protection. And in return, you’ll give me information on any dealings you had with the Blackthorn organization.”
Cassidy stared at him. “You want me to be an informant.”
“I want you to be an employee who happens to share information with me. It’s completely voluntary. And it comes with a significant compensation package and legal protection from my firm’s security division.”
Her phone buzzed again. Another text from Petra: *They’re gone. But they said they’d be back. Cass, what do we do?*
She looked at the phone, then at Caden Ashby. He was waiting, patient as a spider, a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
“Why do you care about the Blackthorns?” she asked.
“That’s not relevant to your employment.”
“It is if I’m going to trust you.”
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. It was gone before she could be sure she’d seen it. “Let’s just say they’ve made some business decisions that I intend to correct. And you, Miss Montclair, are in a unique position to help me do that.”
The clock ticked. Twelve twelve. Noah was safe for now, but that wouldn’t last. The Blackthorns never gave up. They’d find her again, and next time, they might not be so polite.
She made a decision.
“I need to pick up my son from the library.”
“Kara will arrange a car.”
“And I need to know that I can trust you.”
Caden leaned across the mahogany table, his eyes narrowing. “You’re hiding something, Miss Montclair. I don’t like secrets. But I like talent more. Report to HR at 8 AM tomorrow.”