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"Excuse me?"
"That’s my name."
"I know what your name is, Mirabelle."
I pick up my jaw off the floor, again. "H-h-h-how d-d-did you…."
"Mirabelle Young, living temporarily in a one-bed room apartment in Hackney. Father is Cyril Young, the CEO of the Young group of hotels. One of the most successful and wealthy families in the world."
My gaze widens. I open my mouth, but he holds up his hand. "Before you ask any predictable questions, I make it my business to know everything about people before I hire them."
"So, when you saw me yesterday at the gathering, you already knew about my background?"
He hesitates. "I had my investigator get me a file on you and—"
"You have a file on me?" I yell.
"I have files on all of my employees. It’s standard HR procedure to do a check before you hire someone. It’s why I didn’t ask you for references."
"It’s an intrusion of privacy, is what it is."
"Not when all your information is in the public domain."
I blink, then realization dawns. "My social media networks."
"Shouldn’t have set your settings to public." He clicks his tongue.
I cross my arms over my chest. "Do you take pleasure in belittling people?"
"I don’t care one way or the other."
I throw up my hands. "Whatdoyou care about?"
"That you do the job you're paid to do."
"Don’t you want to know why I’m looking for a job, despite my father being one of the richest in the country?"
"Nope." He makes a popping sound at the end.
"You must also be aware my only experience so far has been working in a preschool."
"Where you also helped with the admin and running the place. In the short months you were there, you not only helped hands-on with taking care of the children, but also streamlined the processes. Too bad the owner didn’t have deeper pockets. If he’d managed his cash flow wisely, the nursery would exist today."
Chills run up my arms, and I skim my suddenly sweaty palms down the fabric of my skirt. I struggled to zip it up this morning, and the jacket is a little too tight at the shoulders. That’s what happens when you shop at the second-hand outlet. I can only find my size in the plus-sized brands, which are currently out of my budget, so I knew I’d lucked out when I found a half-way decent-looking ensemble in the thrift store. Unfortunately, it's one size smaller than what I normally wear. I thought I’d looked professional when I saw my reflection in the mirror. But with his piercing gaze on me, and that inscrutable expression in his eyes, I feel like I’m back in high-school and being rebuked by the principal. Though none of them looked anywhere as delicious as the glowering man on the other side of the desk.
"You seem to know everything about me."
"I know enough." He looks me up and down. There’s a peculiar look in his eyes, which he banks again. "Only what’s needed pertaining to your job. In my position, I need to be careful who I allow in my proximity."
"You’ve only taken this job recently, I understand?"
His gaze narrows.
"I heard from our mutual friends—"
“Friends?” he drawls in a tone which indicates he doesn’t have many of them, which, given his attitude so far, is not surprising.
"I meant, the girls who are married to your friends. And I know you’re close to the Seven—"
