One
Matilda
26th January 2019
The city buzzed with the usual Saturday chaos as I paced outside the glass-fronted Chase Architects building, my phone pressed to my ear and my nerves teetering on meltdown.
“What time is your interview?” Mum asked.
“Ten,” I said, glancing at my watch. My palms were so sweaty they might as well have been in a swimming pool.
“Honey, you’ll do fine. Just show them your amazing personality and they’ll love you.” Her voice was so calm and encouraging that I almost believed her.
“You have to say that, you’re my mum.”
“Well, yes,” she laughed. “But it also happens to be true. Now stop fretting and get your arse in there — it’s 9:50!”
“Shit!” I blurted, immediately apologising before hanging up. Great start, Matilda. Cursing at your mum minutes before your dream interview.
I rushed inside, greeted by a perfectly groomed blonde at reception who directed me to the eighth floor. When the lift doors opened, I was hit by the kind of sleek, modern design you only ever see in architectural magazines — glass walls, brushed steel, sharp lines, and the faint scent of expensive coffee. Everyone here looked like they’d stepped straight off the pages ofGQorVogue.
Another stunning brunette behind a glossy desk eyed me like I’d wandered in from the wrong movie set.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her tone just shy of polite.
“Y–yes. Matilda Green. I’m here for the assistant interview.”
She gave a curt nod. “Mr Chase will be with you shortly. Take a seat.”
I perched nervously on one of the pristine leather chairs near a state-of-the-art coffee machine. My leg bounced uncontrollably, the sharp tap of my heel against the marble floor echoing far too loudly. The receptionist shot me a glare, and I froze.
Through the frosted glass of a nearby meeting room, I could just make out the silhouette of a man sitting at a desk. My heart stuttered. That had to be him.
“Miss Green?”
The deep voice startled me so much that I let out a yelp. Smooth, Matilda. Really smooth.
Standing quickly, I smoothed down my skirt and turned — and forgot how to breathe.
Henry Chase looked even better in person than he did online. Broad shoulders, effortlessly tailored suit, sharp jawline dustedwith stubble, and eyes — green, piercing, intelligent — that made the room feel smaller. He extended a hand, and when I shook it, his grip was warm, confident, steady.
“I’m Matilda,” I stammered, my brain short-circuiting under the weight of his attention.
“Henry,” he replied simply, and for a moment, something flickered behind his eyes — a hint of restlessness, maybe even vulnerability — before it was gone.
He gestured for me to follow him into the meeting room.
“So,” he said, barely waiting for me to sit, “why do you want the assistant position?”
“Oh — well,” I began, my rehearsed lines kicking in, “I have a degree in Architecture, and I’ve been following Chase Architects for a while now. In the first year alone, you doubled your client projects. Your focus on sustainable design has really stood out in the architectural world, and I’d love the chance to learn from you.”
Henry’s brows lifted slightly, like he wasn’t expecting such a thorough answer. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if he’d thought better of whatever he was about to say.
“So if you have a degree,” he asked finally, “why aren’t you working as a junior architect?”
I forced a small smile. “I’ve tried. But everywhere wants experience — and you can’t get experience until someone gives you a chance.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Ah yes, that old paradox. I remember it well.” For a second, I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch — almost a smile — before his expression hardened again.
