Mr. Carter calls me on Monday, just once, to thank me for my work at the country club and wish me well in my new job. I express my deep gratitude for the opportunity he gave me and reiterate my willingness to help out on weekends.
"You're going to be a journalist," Mr. Carter says with a warm tone. "People will see you on the 8 p.m. news soon enough. We can't have someone of your caliber handing out drinks, Rafha."
His confidence in me restores some of the hope I lost after that difficult dinner with my family.
I reply, "If I ever get too proud to serve drinks, Mr. Carter, please remind me where I came from."
"Rafha," Mr. Carter says with clear affection, "I can't wait to see how far you'll go."
On my first day at the new job, I wake up early, eager to get started. I'm ready an hour before I need to leave, unable to sit still with excitement. Remembering my father's advice—never arrive less than or more than fifteen minutes before an appointment—I try to follow it, but I end up arriving at the news company thirty minutes early.
The receptionist isn't there yet, and I'm left waiting in the lobby, feeling awkward. The other employees have keycards that allow them past the locked doors into the main office area. A security guard eyes me suspiciously, probably wondering why I'm loitering.
Just as the guard starts to approach, Vincent walks in, looking like he stepped out of a fashion magazine. His well-tailored suit highlights his broad shoulders and slim waist, and his sharp gaze quickly scans the room before landing on me.
"Rafha! You're early," Vincent says, smiling warmly.
The security guard stops in his tracks.
"I was worried you might not make it today," Vincent jokes.
"I wouldn't miss this opportunity," I assure him.
"Good to hear." Noticing the empty reception desk, he adds, "Ah, you don't have a keycard yet. Come with me." Vincent doesn't touch me, but he stays close as he leads me through the security checkpoint, using his keycard to let us in.
The office space is a maze of cubicles with enclosed offices lining the perimeter. Vincent leads me to one of those offices. It's windowless, but there's a framed poster of a sunny beach on the wall.
A middle-aged woman with glasses sits behind a desk, staring intently at her computer screen. The thickness of her lenses magnifies her eyes.
"Lila, this is Rafha —the one I mentioned," Vincent says.
Lila glances at me briefly, sizing me up with a quick, indifferent look before returning to her screen. "Welcome to the team," she says flatly.
Hugo's smile remains unchanged, suggesting this is just Lila's usual demeanor. I'll need to get used to it, but I'm determined to make this job work.
"Just follow Lila's instructions, and you'll be fine," Vincent says.
"Thank you, Mr. Vincent," I reply. I know he prefers I call him Vincent, but this feels more appropriate now that he's my boss.
His smile tightens slightly, but he doesn't correct me.
"I'll leave you to it," he says, exiting the room.
Ready to dive in, I face Lila, waiting for instructions. She continues scrolling through her computer, seemingly forgetting I'm here. After a moment, I clear my throat to remind her.
"Patience is key in the news world," Lila says without looking up.
I know that's not true. In journalism, time is everything—every minute wasted could mean losing a story to the competition. But I hold my tongue; it's my first day, and I don't want to undermine her.
This feels like a power play, a way for her to establish her authority over me. I've seen this before, back at the country club. But I'm no novice—I know how to navigate this dynamic. Still, it's frustrating to have my time wasted.
"If there's something I can do to help..." I begin.
"If you're that eager, why don't you refill the coffee machine? I'm sure the team would appreciate a fresh pot," she says, her tone dripping with condescension.
Another initiation task. Fine. I can play along. The sooner I prove myself, the sooner I'll be given real work.
"Where's the break room?" I ask.
She sighs, as if I'm a nuisance for not knowing where to find it. How could I? It's my first time here.
"I'll figure it out," I say, leaving the office. Maybe this is another test—to see if I can find my way around on my own. Or maybe she just doesn't want to bother with me.
I scan the room, spotting what looks like a likely break room in the corner. Laughter coming from inside confirms it.
"What do you think you're doing?" a voice snaps behind me. I jump, realizing it's Ash. I had blissfully forgotten she works here too.
"I'm getting coffee," I say, trying to stay calm.
"Not in there, you're not," Ash sneers. "That's the executive lounge."
I glance at the door, noticing there's no label. How was I supposed to know?
She jerks her chin toward a small nook with a lone coffee pot. "That's where you belong."
"Who's your supervisor?" Ash demands, her eyes flashing with irritation.
For a brief moment, I think she might side with me—maybe she'll see that my supervisor's negligence almost led me into an embarrassing situation.
"Lila," I answer, hoping for a shred of support.
"Good," Ash says, her voice hard. "I'm going to tell her to keep an eye on you. You have no business being here, and everyone should know it."
YOU ARE READING
HIS FIRST LADY(SANDRO MARCOS)
FanfictionRafha's friend took her to a club, where she met the DJ and used him to get back at her husband for cheating on her even though she was the perfect wife. He was just so young and talented. She then fled after leaving a check. Later, when she ran i...
