Looking through the iron bars of the front gate, the sense of foreboding filling my chest tempts me to turn around and go home. Beyond is a short gravel path flanked by stone statues leading up to the front door. It's not quite a mansion, but it stands out amongst the more conventional suburban homes in the neighborhood, not least because of the Lamborghini in the garage.
I'd expected this to take place at an office building, but now that I've actually arrived, it's only now occurring to me how weird it is to do this at someone's home. The fact that the owner is obviously incredibly rich is even more off-putting.
If I stand around much longer, I'm going to be late for this meeting, so I steel myself and push the intercom button. The jingle sounds just like any other doorbell, and I look up at the security camera glaring down at me, the red light reminding me of a sniper's laser sight.
"
State your name and business
." The voice on the other end is gruff and distorted.
"Um...My name's Grace Park, I'm here to see Mr. Walgren."
There's no reply from the intercom. Instead, the buzzer sounds and the gate unlocks. I push it open with a trembling hand and strut up the gravel path as the gate closes automatically behind me. It's incredibly difficult to walk across gravel while wearing high heels, and I almost lose my balance several times as I struggle to traverse the fifteen-feet distance to the front door.
Somehow, I make it and plant my high heels on the solid paving stones of the front porch. The front door is a heavy slab of wood with elegant patterns carved into the panels and a big brass knocker in the center. The sense of foreboding pervading my body is even stronger as I extend a quivering finger towards the second buzzer.
Before I can ring the buzzer, the door unlocks and swings open. On the other side is a woman wearing a black silk robe with a hem that stops above her knees. Her chestnut hair flows past her shoulders and covers her otherwise exposed cleavage, and she greets me with a razor-thin smile and a pair of blue eyes glaring at the young Asian woman standing in the doorway.
"Hi..." I ask nervously, "I...I'm here to see Mr. Walgren, is he in?"
"He will be soon," the woman replies, her smile barely widening as she looks me up and down. "Come on in. I'll keep you company until he arrives."
I nod and smile nervously as the woman opens the door wider for me. I step over the threshold clutching my bag close as if the strap isn't enough to stop it falling off my shoulder. The woman shuts the front door behind me with a bang that makes me flinch.
"Calm down, sweetie," she says, her smile widening into a grin, "the lion's den isn't that scary."
She leads me down an elegant hallway with sculptures and paintings decorating the walls. The overlapping clicking of multiple stilettos on the marble floor makes me realize that my hostess is also wearing high heels. As I wonder why anyone would wear heels at home, it also occurs to me that most people don't greet strangers at the door while wearing a skimpy robe.
On our way deeper into the house, I pass a huge mirror with a carved wooden frame hanging on the wall and pause briefly to check myself. I'm wearing a pencil skirt with a white blouse and dark jacket, typical office wear which should be fine for a job interview, and my dark silky hair is tied back into a ponytail with side bangs.
My hostess guides me into the most beautiful living room I've ever seen. The mahogany wood paneling of the floor is covered by a huge middle eastern rug and a glass-topped coffee table. The space is ringed by expensive couches and chairs with exquisite upholstery, and above our heads is a chandelier inlayed with gold filigree with electric lights to illuminate the room.
My hostess gestures for me to sit down without saying a word, the diamond inset on her golden wedding ring glinting under the light. I take a seat on one of the couches while she sits down on one of the big chairs facing me. As she crosses her bare legs at the knee, I can almost swear that I catch a glimpse of her crotch devoid of underwear.
I try my best to pretend I didn't just see this woman's pussy while also trying to keep in mind why I'm even here in the first place. A simple one-hour interview. That's all I'm here for. Then I can go home and wait for the call to find out if I've got the job. Judging by the intense glare my hostess is giving me, I probably shouldn't get my hopes up.
"Sushi or kimchi?"
I blink and look at my hostess, wondering if I heard her correctly.
"Excuse me?"
She uncrosses her legs and leans in close, her intense gaze reminding me of the way a bird of prey might eye a mouse. I shrink away from her while I wait for her to clarify what she meant.
"Sushi?" she intones as if I'm hard of hearing, "or kimchi?"
My nervousness dissolves in a puddle of offense as I realize it's a serious question. "If that's a crass way of asking me about my ethnic background, you should be able to find that out from my surname." This time, I'm glaring back at her.
"Steven never actually told me your name," my hostess answers, meeting my angry look with her own steely gaze, "so what is your name?"
"Grace Park."
"So, the answer's kimchi. Noted." She reclines back into her seat and recrosses her legs.
"Do you usually ask guests racist questions like that?"
"Do you usually let rich older men pick you up at bars and take you back to their hotel rooms?"
My heart leaps in my chest and I flinch visibly. My hostess's glare turns into a smirk, satisfied that her question threw me off balance while I struggle to keep my composure.
"I...don't know what you think you're implying but--"
