Consider Me Yours

Melinda

I stand behind the counter, adjusting my apron, and I swear I feel like a character straight out of an old Hollywood movie. The kind where the lead walks into the scene with that perfectly windswept hair, confidence radiating from every step. Only, instead of a glamorous set, I'm in a Coffee shop thinking about my new job, trying to keep my cool like I’m not about to burst with excitement.

I still can’t believe I got the job. It doesn’t feel real. If I weren’t at work right now, I’d be screaming at the top of my lungs and dancing on tables. I could almost hear the celebratory music playing in the background, the dramatic flair of a victory I’ve worked so hard for. All those years of applying and getting rejections, those cold, soul-crushing emails, are finally behind me.

No one tells you the number of times your hopes get shredded when you’re job-seeking. The way each rejection email feels like a weight added to your chest. The sting of looking at yet another opportunity slip through your fingers. Soul-crunching stuff, I tell you. But standing here today, at the start of something new, it all feels worth it.

I remember applying for Johnson & Aims, passing by a particularly grumpy admin lady in her 60s. She sat behind a mahogany desk that had probably seen more shattered dreams than it had signed contracts. Thick glasses perched on the edge of her nose, she barely spared me a glance as I handed her my resume. Her nails clicked against the keyboard with the kind of finality that made me feel like my application was already in the virtual trash bin.

"Sit," she said, in a tone that could curdle milk. I obeyed.

The waiting room smelled like stale coffee and old ambition. A flickering light above buzzed with the kind of determination I wished I had left in me after my last rejection. The chair was stiff, the air heavy with silence, except for the occasional sniffle from a guy in a navy suit beside me, clutching his own folder like a lifeline. I knew that look—hope and dread, an exhausting combination.

The interview itself was a blur of carefully measured answers, a few nervous chuckles, and a panel of blank-faced executives who nodded in sync, like well-trained owls. When I walked out, I was sure I had bombed it. And I had. But then, weeks later, another call came.

And now? Now, I was hired. I would be sitting at my own desk, with my own keyboard clicking, no longer the desperate applicant but the new executive assistant

I still remember it like it was yesterday. I had stumbled into Coffee King after a particularly miserable interview, feeling like the universe had given up on me. But then, I tasted the best vanilla chai latte I’ve ever had in my life, and just like that, everything seemed to shift. I told Mr. Brookfield just how amazing the drink was, and somehow, the prickly silver-haired man with biker tattoos and brown-frame reading glasses managed to cajole me into spilling my guts about everything that had gone wrong.

Next thing I knew, I had a job with flexible hours and great bonuses. It wasn’t exactly what I had dreamed of when I graduated, but it was something—something I could work with. And somehow, through all my rambling and venting, we became close. I’m the only one he trusts to lock up at the end of the night, a responsibility that was unheard of before me. It’s safe to say I’m his favorite, and I’ve been savoring that status. He’s been incredibly supportive, and I’m beyond grateful to him for offering me this gig over the past two years.

But as much as I appreciate everything he’s done for me, I’ve always known this wasn’t my forever. I’ve been waiting for the day I would step outside these walls and into the world I worked so hard for. The world I earned with that degree.

Mr. Brookfield may be rough around the edges—certainly no father figure to win any awards—but he’s been like a father to me, offering a kind of care and understanding that’s been missing in my life. More than I can say about the man who donated his sperm to my mom, that’s for sure.

I always wanted bigger things for my life, and while Coffee King has been a refuge, the frustration of not being called back for any substantial job has been gnawing at me.

But not anymore. That’s behind me now. I’m done. Finito. The next chapter is waiting, and this time, I’m ready.

"Thanks, Mr. Brookfield! I promise I'll come by to get my coffee here, you know that," I say to the 65-year-old man, trying to hide the lump that’s forming in my throat. He’s standing behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine with a cloth, but his eyes are glistening. He never actually said it, but I think he started to see me as his daughter.

"You do that, honey, and make this old man's final days happy," he says dramatically, his voice cracking just a little at the end.

I laugh, brushing off the sudden swell of emotion in my chest. "Mr. Brookfield, if anyone is going to outlive anyone here, it’s you. What, with all those boxes you keep lifting like a bodybuilder on steroids? You seriously need to take it easy. Your back—"

"Alright, alright, I will," he interrupts with a dismissive wave of his hand, though his eyes are twinkling with a rare softness. "Now, get out of here. You need to be rested up for your big day tomorrow."

He pulls me into a bear hug with his left arm, and for a second, it feels like time stands still. I feel the warmth of his embrace, the comfort of someone who’s had my back, even when I didn’t know I needed it.

"Bye, and just remember, I’m on the other side of the street, not the country," I say with a smile, kissing the man’s cheek before stepping back.

As I walk toward my silver Volvo C30, I feel a strange sense of finality. Coffee King has been my home for the past two years—my refuge, my safe space in a world that never quite understood me. But now, it’s time to leave, to step into the future I’ve dreamed of.

Across the street, Nova-Ceutics stands tall and imposing, its sleek glass façade reflecting the late afternoon sun. From where I’m parked, I can see the building foyer buzzing with employees checking out after another day of work. At least most people will be gone by the time I head in to get my pass card done. The thought brings a sense of relief; I’m not ready for the full-on spectacle of being seen just yet.

I drop my bag on the passenger seat and let out a deep breath, staring at the building for a few moments, gathering my thoughts. There's a knot in my stomach, a mix of excitement and fear. It's not that I’m not ready for this—God knows I am—but the uncertainty still looms large. After all those years of applying and waiting, it’s finally happening. The job I’ve dreamed of, the one I worked so hard for, is right in front of me.

Still, the antisocial part of me feels uneasy. I’ve spent so much of my life avoiding attention, avoiding the spotlight, preferring the quiet hum of my routine. But this is different. This is big. And I have no idea how to handle the attention that’s bound to come with it.

I glance at the clock—20 minutes have passed. My social battery is tapped out, but it’s now or never. With a deep breath, I turn off the car radio and grab my bag.

"Alright, Mel, you’ve got this," I whisper to myself as I open the door. The air feels cooler than I expected, and I tug my jacket tighter around me, trying to steady my nerves.

As I make my way toward the building, my steps feel heavier than usual, like each one is a reminder of how much I’m about to change. No longer just the barista at Coffee King, no longer the girl with big dreams but no way to make them happen.

I reach the door of Nova-Ceutics and push it open, the cool, sterile air inside hitting me like a wave. It smells of sandalwood, unlike Coffee King, but the energy here is different as well—more corporate, more polished.

I don't know what I was expecting, but walking into the lobby, it takes everything I have not to gawk at everything because—holy smokes—this place is elegance if I've ever seen it. The black and gold marble tiles gleam under the soft overhead lighting, complementing the gold elevator doors and the avant-garde art pieces lining the walls. Every inch of the space whispers wealth, taste, and just the right amount of intimidation.

At the center of it all, a massive steel tree sculpture stands, its branches twisting toward the ceiling, fading gold giving it a rugged, unfinished look—like it had survived something. A black leather couch coils around it like a protective embrace, perfectly arranged as if no one had dared disturb the symmetry.

To my left, a help screen rotates the Nova-Ceutics logo in 3D, sleek and futuristic, the kind of detail that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a high-tech empire. I'm so mesmerized by the glass teardrop lights suspended above me, casting soft reflections on the floor, that I nearly lose my balance.

Then—ahem.

The deliberate clearing of a throat jerks me back to reality. I whip my head around and find myself staring at a young man, probably in his late twenties, smiling at me with a knowing glint in his gold-green hazel eyes.

Square glasses rest on the bridge of his nose, and his wavy brown hair looks effortlessly styled—probably the kind of hair that falls into place no matter how many times he ruffles it.

His crisp white shirt and neatly knotted yellow tie make him look polished, but there’s an ease about him, like he’s been here long enough to find amusement in watching newcomers stumble their way through their first day.

"Can I be of assistance, Miss?" he asks, his voice a velvety mix of amusement and professionalism.

I let out a breath, half-laughing, half-mortified. "You can start by telling me how to get used to this place before I embarrass myself more."

He chuckles, the sound warm and easy. "Ah, a worthy challenge. Don’t worry, everyone gawks their first time here. You’ll blend in soon enough. Follow me—I’ll give you the crash course before you accidentally walk into the CEO’s office thinking it’s the restroom."

He says as he starts to close whatever he was busy with on his desktop, and moves around his desk.

I blink. "That… that has happened, hasn’t it?"

He grins. "Oh, you have no idea."

I squeak.

And I must have a mortified expression on my face because he laughs at my nervous state, revealing a pair of dimples that make him look younger than he already does.

''Don't worry, I'm sure everyone here had the same reaction. I know I did... My name is Miles Kincaid, by the way''

'' It's a pleasure to meet you Miles, I'm Melinda Hills. I'll be starting work on Monday. Do you think you can help me get my pass card?''

''Of course. Right this way''

He directs me to a screen to get my face scanned with their biometric system and a few minutes later, I have full access to corporate heaven.

''Thank you so much for this!''

''You're welcome anytime, Melinda. I'll see you on Monday?'' He says with a au chucks smile

'' Absolutely''

I wave him goodbye and head for my car. It's past 4 p.m., and the traffic in New York is torture sent straight from Tartarus. Horns blare, engines hum in an angry chorus, and the occasional taxi driver yells something colorful in my direction. Typical.

By the time I drag myself through my apartment door at 5:30 p.m., my feet ache, my patience is non-existent, and my stomach is actively protesting the granola bar I tried to pass off as lunch. But none of that matters—because I have news. Big news.

Since I'm an only child, it means a lot to have them. Chloe is a lawyer and has two younger twin brothers, Luke and Nathan, who are 13-year-olds. It's like those two are a double version of that kid from Home Alone. But they definitely have an epic sense of humor.

Samantha is a vet and has an older sister named Sienna, who is the COO of Narcotics Corp. She rarely ever hears much from her as the family workaholic, but everyone in her family understands that's how she enjoys her life, and they meet her when she can.

Trixie - an assistant fashion designer - on the other hand, is the younger sister of four boys (turned to fine men). Markham, Taylor, Leo, and Laurie have been the bane of her existence ever since she started dating, but then they make up for it by spoiling her, which always eases her whenever they let their testosterone ruin her fun. Luckily, Trixie can stand on her own.

I know, what a colorful pair we are, right?

Melinda

I tap my fingers against my phone, debating whether to hit send. It’s been a while since all four of us were in the same call together, and knowing my friends, the chaos is inevitable.

Screw it.

I send a message to the Bratz Friends Forever group chat—the name we proudly chose back in college, convinced we were those girls. Within seconds, the responses flood in.

Chloe: Give me five, I’m wrapping up some research.

Trixie: Ugh, I just woke up. If I have to be conscious, there better be gossip.

Samantha: Tinker is demanding attention, but I’m in. What’s up?

I grin. Perfect.

I toss my bag onto the couch, barely kicking off my heeled boots before grabbing my phone. I hit the video call button, already bracing myself for the cha