Bonds

-Maya's POV-

I sat on the plush chair, hating how distracted I felt knowing that Natalia must have put in a lot to get me this interview. My father's words echoed in my head, each syllable tumbling through my mind. He'd shoved the papers at me, anger burning in his eyes, and demanded I sign them. My mother followed him out, a silent apology in her eyes that did nothing to soothe the storm raging inside me.

"Amaya Stone? Is Amaya Stone here?"

The voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I jumped to my feet, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. The other candidates watched me, probably judging me for not being focused.

"Yeah, that's me," I mumbled, shoving the stray hair from my face.Content from NôvelDr(a)ma.Org.

The woman who called my name gave me a warm smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She looked about my age, but carried herself with a confidence I envied. Her tailored black suit hugged her curves perfectly, her dark hair sleek and polished.

"No worries," she said kindly, her voice like honey. "Nerves got the best of everyone sometimes. Follow me, Ms. Stone."

I opened my mouth to correct her- it was Mrs. Stone technically, and McCall anyway - but the words wouldn't come out. We stopped in front of a heavy wooden door with a brass nameplate that read "Ms. Edwards." My guide took a deep breath, smoothing her already flawless outfit.

"Just a heads up," she murmured, her voice losing a bit of its earlier cheer. "Ms. Edwards can be a bit... direct. But she's fair, and she appreciates honesty."

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. "Direct?" 1 echoed, already picturing a stern woman in a power suit grilling me like a criminal.

She offered a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, you'll be fine. Just be yourself."

Taking another deep breath, I nodded, trying to muster some confidence. The woman gave the door a gentle knock, then pushed it open.

"Ms. Edwards," she announced, her voice back to its usual confident tone. "Amaya Stone is here for her interview."

A woman looked up from behind a massive mahogany desk. She was older than I expected, maybe in her late fifties, with silver streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun. Her eyes met mine, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.

"Thank you.

, Sarah," Ms. Edwards said, her voice a low tone that commanded attention. "Please, close the door."

Sarah gave me a quick wink and a thumbs-up before shutting the door softly behind her. The knot in my stomach tightened, and the questions about my father swirled around my mind but I knew for now, I had to focus on this interview. I took a deep breath, trying to block out everything else, and forced a smile.

"Ms. Edwards," I said, extending a hand. "It's nice to meet you."

Ms. Edwards didn't offer a smile in return. Instead, she stared at my hand for a beat before reaching out and giving it a firm, no-nonsense shake.

"Welcome, Ms. Stone," she said, her gaze still locked of mine. "Please, sit."

I sat down in the chair facing her desk. It didn't feel like just an interview anymore. It felt like a test, an interrogation. And I wasn't sure if I was ready for the questions that were about to come.

My stomach twisted as Ms. Edwards flipped through my portfolio. "Interesting," she finally said, "Bold use of color, Ms. Stone, but not exactly. conventional."

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My cheeks burned. "I like to push boundaries," I stamntered, "to create something unexpected."

She raised an eyebrow, "And can you explain how that translates to happy clients? Not everyone wants the unexpected in their living room, Ms. Stone."

My mind went blank. All the practiced answers, the slick comebacks I'd prepared- vanished, "Well, ..." I trailed off, feeling like a deflated balloon.

Ms. Edwards sighed, her perfectly polished nails tapping a rhythm against the desk. "Interior design isn't just about expressing yourself, Ms. Stone," she began, a hint of condescension in her voice. "It's about understanding your client's needs, their vision."

But her words triggered something within me. My father's harsh voice echoed in my head, "Because they took everything from me." Taking a deep. breath, I sat up straighter. "You're absolutely right, Ms. Edwards," I said, my voice surprisingly firm. "Understanding the client is key. But sometimes, a designer can help them see beyond limitations, push them outside their comfort zones, create something truly unique. Something that speaks to their soul, not just their Pinterest board."

Ms. Edwards" gaze narrowed, then softened a fraction. A flicker of something, maybe even interest, crossed her face. But before she could respond, I stood up.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Edwards," I said, extending my hand. "It's been... educational."

She took my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. Thank you, Ms. Stone," she replied, her voice lacking its earlier edge. "We'll be in touch."

As I walked out of the office, my mind swirled with emotions. The interview hadn't gone as planned, but something had shifted in the room. Maybe it was the way my voice gained strength, the unexpected fire in my eyes. Maybe it was the connection I unknowingly made between my father's words and my own design philosophy, finding my voice even amidst the confusion.

Stepping out of the imposing office building, I squinted against the sudden glare of the afternoon sun. Car horns blared, pedestrians hurried past in a blur of colors and faces, and the air thrummed with a chaotic energy-

Despite the noise and commotion, the call from Ivan cut through it all

"Lnever thought I would be the victim of a runaway bride," he teased, his voice laced with amusement.

I chuckled, surprised by the sound. "I'm sorry," I managed, "The last few days have just been a lot, and then I had the interview, I'm really sorry I haven't had time to come see you and get settled."

"Is that why you look beautiful?" he asked, a slight shift in his tone.

I blinked, my laughter tinged with disbelief. "What?" The question hung in the air, followed by a car ho k n g harshly, shattering the brief moment of connection.

"What?" I uttered again, this time a mix of surprise and confusion lacing my voice. "I don't exactly look beautiful, Ivan. I look like a hot mess."

As I turned, searching for the source of the noise, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb, its polished surface the curb, its reflecting the afternoon sun. A figure emerged from the driver's side, and my breath hitched. It was Ivan.

He took a few strides towards me, his tall frame casting a lengthening shadow on the sidewalk. My stomach fluttered as our eyes met. "That's not what my eyes tell me," he said, his voice low and warm.

His words sparked a smile on my lips, and I ended the call, the phone slipping back into my purse as if forgotten. "Ivan? How? What are you doing here?"

He grinned, reaching out to pull me closer. "Picking you up," he replied, you said you were going to see your best friend and then you disappeared on me."

"I'm sorry. My father happened and then he managed to mess with my head and this interview. And I'm pretty sure I blew it."

"You needed a distraction."