Chapter 8 Don't you have a good conditioner

Sara's POV

My knees were wobbling as I stood before the iron gates of Carlos Alvarez's estate.

How was I going to get out of this mess?

If I was Evelyn Rodriguez, I could handle it. But Irene Peters?

I barely knew her.

I was just discovering who the hell she is.

And I didn't even create her.

"Why are you still standing?" I heard the man say. "Don't you want that job anymore?"

I did. And I didn't.

Damn it!

I wouldn't be standing here if I had simply walked out of that mall. I had overstayed my welcome and now I was paying a huge price for my mistake.

"Did - did you say he was expecting me?"

The man threw a glance at his partner beside him and they burst into a fit of mocking roar.

"Who the hell do you think you are? How can Carlos Alvarez know you?" He sneered. "If you're here for the interview, you should get in now."

At least, that was relieving. I straightened and adjusted my wig. That was one thing about Irene Peters. The wig. It was always clumsily arranged. Then I poked my spectacles closer to my eyes.

"Have a good day gentlemen," channeling Irene's awkward bravado.

Because Evelyn Rodriguez would never.

But, easy does it. I was back to my act.

The gate loomed, its iron spikes a silent threat. Beyond it, the sprawling estate radiated menace, twisting my stomach into knots..

But this was my shot at freedom. Grey's words echoed: Get me what I want, and the necklace is yours. Millions in diamonds, enough to vanish with Sophie and Sam.

That was all I needed to think about right now.

I pushed the gate and stepped into the winding road that felt like a descent into hell. A golf cart idled nearby, its driver a grim-faced man who didn't bother looking at me.

"I'm here for the -"

He started the vehicle without saying a word, cutting me off.

Rude!

I scrambled to catch up, nearly tripping in my scuffed loafers. If he was having a bad day, he should try to be in my shoes. I couldn't even be bothered by his attitude. Not when I was still regretting my decision to come here. But the mansion loomed ahead, its facade, cold and imposing, a silent warning of the man inside.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and alighted from the golf cart. There were armed men all over the place. Who else would have armed men around him this much if not a mafia boss? Even the president didn't need this much security.

My pulse hammered as I approached the entrance, where another guard blocked my path.

"ID," the man in the entrance grunted as I attempted to walk past him.

I fished it from my pocket and flashed it before him. He nodded, made a curt hand signal - that was when I saw the sniper - and shifted for me to move in. My heart palpitations tripled. I had just seen a man dressed in black, belly-down on a tower, his rifle trained on me. One wrong move, and I'd be a memory.

How the hell was I going to do this?

I moved on with false confidence, scanning the room for anyone. It was empty. No candidates. No chatter.

Wasn't there supposed to be an interview going on? I had expected to see a room full of candidates but all I saw was a table, set with food and fruits, because the scent of the food was the first thing that welcomed me into the large luxurious space.

"Hello?" I called, my voice echoing. "Anyone?"

I didn't move. All I could think of was that sniper. I imagined this gun was still pointed at me. A wrong move and I'll be history.

"It's ...Irene. Irene Peters. I came for the interview."

Silence was the only response I got.

I considered bolting now that I had the opportunity, and telling Grey the job fell through, that he'd need another way to earn his damn necklace. But before I could move, a voice sliced through the quiet.

"Irene Peters..."

I turned swiftly as I heard my alias being called, heart lurching. A few feet from me was the legendary Carlos Alvarez, staring at me like he could read my soul, peel off the façade I wore, his presence filling the room like a storm. I adjusted my hair and fumbled for my ID in my pocket.

"Y-yes. I heard there's an interview."

He didn't speak. Only stared for an uncomfortable long three seconds, like he could read my mind, before dropping the leg that was crossed against his knees. He dropped his crossed arms and walked towards me, each step deliberate, a far cry from the beating of my heart against my chest.

"What are your qualifications?"

He was uncomfortably close to him, his cologne, spicy and expensive, invading my space.. Carlos Alvarez, the infamous mafia boss in my hair space. All I could think in that moment was why the hell I had agreed to this in the first place. He raised his hand to my face and I held my breath. This was it.

He was going to call out my bluff at this moment. Maybe I have been unfortunate this time again and maybe - just maybe - if I confessed before he spoke, he would pardon me. I was coerced.

I shut my eyes as his hand closed up to my face, expecting a slap. But instead, I felt a brush against my forehead.

"Don't you have a good conditioner?" I heard, his voice was low and amused like he had never seen a hair that bad.

I threw my eyes open, torn between horror and amusement.

"Don't you know how to answer a question?" He asked, arching a brow.

Right. The Irene Peters act. Clumsy and desperate.

"I-I...I'll get one today," I mumbled, cringing at my own stutter.

His gaze remained on me. Green eyes, watching me. And when the gaze left my eyes, they fell on my body. Faded jeans and shapeless top. Shapeless enough to kill any imagination.

"You can't work for me dressed like this."

Good. That was what I wanted to hear. I didn't qualify. Coming here was a mistake and now I had an answer to give Thomas Grey.

I nodded curtly, suppressing the smile forming from my lips, and turned to go.

But then his voice stopped me.

"Where are you going?" He demanded.l, his voice cold and sharp with authority.

I paused, said a prayer for the first time in a long time, and faced him. He had a scowl on his face like he found me amusing and I was a puzzle he badly wanted to solve. I wanted to be anything but amusing.

"I don't fit," I replied, voice breaking.

He chuckled softly, tossing his dark curls. "Prove to me, Irene Peters, why I should hire you."