Mila
I trip over the curb outside the office building. I lurch forward with a stifled scream, my hands desperately in the air. I manage to catch myself just before I facepalm on the hard concrete sidewalk. I take a few seconds to catch my breath and regulate my heartbeat.
I can’t believe I nearly died before making it inside on the first day of my new job.
That feels like an omen.
I risk a glance around and it seems like no one is paying me any attention. Everyone looks like they’re in a hurry to get somewhere—too busy to pay attention to some random clumsy girl on the curb.
Good. At least, I don’t have to die of embarrassment.I straighten my skirt and smooth my blouse, taking a deep shaky breath.
Don’t mess this up, Mila
The building is tall, made of steel and glass and intimidating in a way that makes my chest tighten. Popov Shipping Group is etched into the front in clean, bold letters.
My Papaw’s voice echoes in my head;Just show up on time, work hard, and keep your head up.
I’ve done the first part. The rest…we’ll see.
Inside, the lobby is all marble floors and quiet power. The receptionist barely glances up as I approach, which somehow makes me more nervous than if she’d stared.
“Mila Voronin?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I’m here for my first day.”
She smiles politely, taps something into her computer, then picks up the phone. “Mr. Abrams? She’s here.” She drops the phone and points at the row of chairs in the opposite direction. “Have a seat over there.”
I perch on the edge of a chair, hands folded in my lap, trying not to fidget. A minute later, a man appears from the hallway to the right.
He’s middle-aged with thinning hair slicked back too neatly, wire-frame glasses, expression already bored. His suit looks expensive but worn, like he’s been doing this job too long and resents it.
“Voronin,” he says. Not a question.
“Yes,” I reply, popping up. “That’s me. Mila.”
He glances at his watch. “Follow me.”
No handshake. No welcome.
“I’m Howard Abrams. Human Resources,” he adds over his shoulder as he starts walking.
I scramble to keep up.
He moves briskly, like he expects me to fall behind and doesn’t much care if I do. As we pass through security andinto the main office area, he speaks in clipped sentences, eyes forward.
“You were recommended by your grandfather,” he says. “He’s an old friend of our general manager.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Mm,” he hums, noncommittal. “That explains the placement.”
The words make my stomach dip.
We stop at a desk positioned outside a large office with frosted glass walls. It looks imposing and closed off.
“This is your desk,” Howard says, gesturing vaguely. “You’ll be working here.”
I look around. The desk is pristine, almost sterile. No personal items. No room for mistakes.