Chapter 3 Interview as a Hunt

# Chapter 3: Interview as a Hunt

The Albert Tower hadn't changed in three years—still a gleaming monument to wealth and power, its mirrored exterior reflecting clouds and sky as if heaven itself endorsed their success. I stood across the street, watching the morning sun glint off its sixty-eight stories, my pulse steady despite the significance of the moment.

This was where they had broken me. This was where I would break them.

My Louboutin heels clicked purposefully across the marble lobby, the red soles a small extravagance I'd allowed myself—a splash of blood beneath each step. The security guard nodded respectfully as I announced myself: "Claire Fontaine, for the ten o'clock with Mr. Albert."

"Yes, Ms. Fontaine. Mr. Pierce will escort you up."

My heart stuttered. Winton. I hadn't anticipated encountering him so soon, but I smoothed my expression into pleasant neutrality as the elevator doors opened to reveal his tall figure.

Three years had barely changed him—still immaculately dressed in a tailored suit, silver hair perfectly coiffed, cold eyes assessing me with professional detachment. There was no recognition in his gaze, no hint that he saw the girl who had once chewed glass and blood before him.

"Ms. Fontaine," he extended his hand. "Winton Pierce, legal counsel for the Albert family."

I slipped my hand into his, noting the excessive dryness of his palm. "Enchantée, Mr. Pierce."

We ascended in silence, the elevator whisking us toward the penthouse. I used the time to activate the recording contacts with a subtle triple blink, their microscopic technology capturing everything in my field of vision.

"Your references are quite impressive," Winton finally said as we neared the top. "Though your relocation from Europe seems rather sudden."

I offered a practiced smile. "Sometimes one needs new horizons, non? New York has always fascinated me."

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse foyer—the same space where I'd once stood nervously clutching a champagne flute, believing I'd been specially chosen. The memory threatened to unbalance me, but I centered myself, focusing on the subtle differences: new artwork, different furnishings, the passage of time evident in small details.

"This way," Winton directed, leading me through the main living area toward Albert's office.

I cataloged everything as we walked—security keypads, camera positions, the daily rhythm of the household evident in breakfast dishes not yet cleared, a housekeeping cart parked discreetly in a side corridor. Information was currency, and I was here to become rich.

Albert Senior's office was a temple to masculine power—dark woods, leather furniture, and a wall of windows showcasing his domain over the city. The man himself rose from behind an imposing desk, extending his hand with the confidence of someone unaccustomed to rejection.

Advertisement

"Ms. Fontaine, Albert Friedrich. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

I hadn't seen him in person since that night, having only observed him through news photos and social media. Up close, I could see the strain of years—deeper lines around his eyes, a slight softening of his once-sharp jawline. Still handsome for his age, still radiating authority, but time was beginning its inevitable erosion.

"The pleasure is mine," I replied, accepting his handshake with precisely calibrated pressure—not too firm to seem aggressive, not too soft to seem weak. "Your reputation precedes you."

"As does yours. Your work with the Beaumont family in Paris was particularly noted. Their son's French improved remarkably under your tutelage."

I smiled modestly. The Beaumonts didn't exist, of course, but their glowing recommendation—created through an elaborate digital facade—had served its purpose.

"Jean-Michel was a dedicated student. I hope to find the same enthusiasm in your son."

Albert gestured for me to sit, settling himself not behind his desk but in the leather chair adjacent to mine—a calculated move to create false intimacy.

"Elliot is... different," he said carefully. "Brilliant, particularly with music, but he hasn't spoken more than a few words since he was ten years old. His previous tutors have found him challenging."

I leaned forward slightly, projecting earnest interest. "Different isn't difficult, Mr. Albert. It's just different. I've worked with neurodivergent students before."

"Please, call me Albert," he said, his eyes lingering a moment too long on my face. "You're younger than I expected."

"I'm twenty-eight," I lied smoothly. "And I believe youth can be an advantage in connecting with teenage students."

The interview proceeded along predictable lines—questions about my teaching methodology, my experience, my ability to travel with the family when required. I provided carefully crafted answers, neither too perfect nor too rehearsed. Occasionally, I crossed and uncrossed my legs, noting how his eyes tracked the movement before disciplining themselves back to my face.

"And your family?" he asked, in that particular way wealthy people do—fishing for connections, for social placement.

"My father was French, my mother Chinese. Both passed away—car accident in Geneva." Another fabrication, delivered with just enough emotion to seem authentic without inviting deeper questions.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, without genuine feeling. "And no husband? Partner?"

"My career has been my focus," I replied with a slight smile. "Though I'm not opposed to the right connection."

His interest sharpened visibly. I had him measured now—a man accustomed to acquiring whatever caught his eye, whether companies or women.

After forty minutes of conversation, he stood. "I'd like you to meet Elliot. He's in the music room."

As we walked through the penthouse, I deliberately slowed my pace as we passed a sideboard where Albert had carelessly left his phone and keys. My recording contacts captured the image of his security fob and keycard.

"Beautiful place," I commented, gesturing to an abstract painting as my other hand casually brushed against the edge of the sideboard, palming a business card from his stack. "Is that a Rothko?"

"Good eye," he responded with approval. "Original, of course."

The music room was located in the eastern wing of the penthouse—a magnificent space with floor-to-ceiling windows and acoustic paneling. The haunting notes of a Chopin nocturne filled the air, played with technical perfection and surprising emotional depth.

At the grand piano sat a lanky teenager, his dark hair falling over his eyes as his fingers danced across the keys. He didn't acknowledge our entrance, lost in his musical world.

"Elliot," Albert called firmly. "Your potential new tutor is here."

The music stopped abruptly, the final notes hanging in the air like a question. Elliot turned slowly, his gaze cautious and assessing as it landed on me.

"Bonjour, Elliot," I said softly. "Your playing is magnificent."

He studied me without responding, but I could see the intelligence in his eyes—watchful, wary, wise beyond his years. There was something else there too—a deep sadness, a weight he carried. I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy, quickly suppressed. I couldn't afford emotional complications.

"Elliot doesn't speak much," Albert explained unnecessarily, "but he understands everything. Don't you, son?"

The boy gave an almost imperceptible nod, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Perhaps you could demonstrate your teaching approach?" Albert suggested.

I set my purse down and moved closer to the piano bench. "May I?" I asked Elliot directly.

After a moment's hesitation, he shifted slightly, allowing me room to sit. I placed my hands on the keys, beginning a simple French children's song, then adding lyrics in a soft voice. I kept my movements gentle, non-threatening, aware of his discomfort with proximity.

To my surprise, after the first verse, his hands joined mine on the keys, adding a complex counter-melody that transformed the simple tune into something hauntingly beautiful.

"Très bien," I murmured with genuine appreciation.

When I glanced up, I caught Albert watching us with satisfaction. The tableau clearly pleased him—his damaged son connecting, however briefly, with the elegant young woman who might join their household.

We returned to Albert's office to discuss terms. As he outlined salary and living arrangements, I allowed my gaze to drift to the far wall, where a large painting concealed what appeared to be a safe.

"Something caught your interest?" Albert asked, following my gaze.

"The painting," I lied smoothly. "Degas, isn't it? The brushwork is distinctive."

"Indeed," he said, pleased by my knowledge. "You have refined tastes, Ms. Fontaine."

As he turned to retrieve a contract from his desk drawer, I leaned forward slightly. "I certainly hope the position includes... personal time. I value my independence."

He looked up sharply, interest rekindling in his eyes. "Of course. The family respects privacy. You'd have your own suite, complete freedom on weekends, and evenings after Elliot's lessons conclude."

I crossed my legs slowly, allowing my skirt to ride up just enough to draw his eye. "Perfect. I find New York evenings so... stimulating."

His pupils dilated slightly. "The city certainly comes alive at night."

As I signed the contract with a flourish, he added casually, "We're having a small dinner party this Friday. Nothing formal, just a few friends. It might be a good opportunity for you to meet the rest of the family."

"I'd be delighted," I replied, handing back the signed document with a brush of my fingers against his.

When I stood to leave, I deliberately dropped my pen, bending to retrieve it with a slow, deliberate movement that brought me close to his desk. As I straightened, I let my leg brush against the edge of his knee.

"Excusez-moi," I murmured with a hint of embarrassment. "How clumsy."

The flash of desire in his eyes confirmed my power. Men like Albert were predictable—they believed themselves sophisticated predators when they were merely simple creatures responding to basic stimuli.

Winton appeared to escort me back to the elevator, his expression professionally blank. As we descended, he remarked, "Mr. Albert seems quite impressed with your qualifications."

"I'm very good at what I do," I replied, meeting his gaze steadily.

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—not recognition, exactly, but a vague uneasiness, as if trying to place me in a forgotten context.

I smiled, savoring the moment. "Is something wrong, Mr. Pierce?"

He shook his head, the moment passing. "No. Welcome to the Albert family, Ms. Fontaine."

As I exited the tower into the bright morning light, I activated the shutdown sequence for my recording contacts, satisfied with the day's harvest of information. Phase one was complete—I was inside the fortress.

I hailed a taxi and gave my address, allowing myself a moment of grim satisfaction. They had no idea what they'd just invited into their home—the viper they'd nurtured with their cruelty, returned to deliver venom directly to their hearts.

"How did it go?" my driver asked conversationally.

I watched the Albert Tower recede in the side mirror, its gleaming surface no longer intimidating but inviting—a treasure chest waiting to be plundered.

"They're going to love me," I replied, my true meaning hidden behind Claire Fontaine's pleasant smile. "I'm exactly what they deserve."