Golden Melody (Editing)

Chapter 67

Chapter 67 - Nervous Applicant, and a Certified Simp

Zatariel's Point of View

I've taken exams that made grown adults cry into their calculus textbooks.

I've argued with a math teacher who I'm eighty-seven percent sure was a retired government spy with unresolved issues and a personal vendetta against the quadratic formula.

I've even endured the emotional torture of being legally banished three meters away from the girl I like.

But this?

This is something else entirely.

I'm sitting in the actual Presidential Office of Philine.

Not a simulation.

Not a student government event.

The real one.

Gold trim. Marble floors. A ceiling so high it probably files taxes separately.

And behind the desk sits the man who could probably end my life with a single raised eyebrow.

President Ashel Dom.

The man.
The myth.
The terrifying legend.

Also, the father of my best friend.

Also-also, the future father-in-law of the girl I like.

Also—also-also the man who sent me to juvenile detention last year after I stole my father's motorcycle and drove it helmet-less through the presidential residence at three in the morning.

I am extremely out of my depth.

Behind me, my father looked like he was on the verge of spontaneous combustion.

"You're abusing your privilege," he muttered under his breath. "This is not what being close to the Dom family means."

"And yet," I whispered back politely, "you still called ahead and scheduled the meeting."

Pause.

"Thanks, Dad."

Earlier today, the moment he told me the appointment was confirmed, I ran upstairs as if my life depended on it.

Ten outfit changes later, I settled on a royal blue suit with subtle pinstripes.

Respectable. Confident. Slightly shiny.

I printed my resume—Times New Roman, size eleven, because I have standards—triple-checked for typos, glared at the document in case a rogue comma tried to sneak in, then practiced my best mirror pose:

Zatariel Wov. Future CEO of the Galaxy.

Still handsome. Still brilliant.

And now here I am.

Sweating slightly. But not visibly.

Across the desk, President Dom flipped through my resume with the calm focus of a man who had probably approved life-altering decisions before breakfast.

No expression.

No reaction.

Not even a nose wrinkle.

Meanwhile, I was internally spiraling about whether I had accidentally used the British spelling of "favourite."

"Perfect scores," the President finally said.

Page turned.

"Consistent top marks. Recommendations from the school director. Student Council President. Chess team captain. Gold medal in art. Science symposium champion. Math Olympiad participant..."