Ooooooooffffff, sorry about this =/

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Amber's POV

“Please have a seat. Your interviewer will be with you shortly.” The blandly pretty receptionist motions to a row of leather chairs lining the wall. You give her a stiff nod and settle down, ing your suit jacket as you did. She walks back around her desk and busies herself with some paperwork. You realize you’re examining her hair. It’s a similar shade to Krystal’s, although Krystal’s hair is shinier and healthier looking.

Why were you noticing these things? Didn’t you tell yourself weeks ago that you’d better forget about her?

You lean against the cold wall but jerk forward again. The online medical interview forums all mentioned how you should always be on your guard even before you walk into the interview room. Who knows, the receptionist might be writing notes on you even now, to be used later during the round robin discussions regarding your medical school candidacy.

To pass the time and quell your nerves, you take a closer look at the room. It’s richly decorated. Impressionist paintings adorn the oak paneled walls. The floor is covered with red carpeting, nearly as plush as the one back in Krystal’s dorm. The receptionist’s desk is a magnificent behemoth, soft lantern light reflecting in its glossy surface. Large arched windows are evenly dispersed along the walls, letting in the weak sunlight filtering through the rainclouds. You can see students walking around outside, lounging on the grass, eating underneath sprawling cedar trees, laughing about something inconsequential. They’re similar to the ones found at your liberal arts college, but here in New England, there’s a different sort of elitism. It’s as if not only are the students smart, but they’re also well bred.

You don’t know why you’re walking into another place you don’t belong.

No, I belong, you remind yourself. I belong here as much as any one of them.

To reassure yourself, you glance down at your clothes. The suit you were wearing, it was custom made, a rush order from some Italian tailor your sister had found. When she heard you didn’t have any formal wear for your interviews, she immediately made an appointment.

“We’re rich now, aren’t we?” Jackie had said over your objections. “You need to look the part.”

She was the only one you told about the entire situation. Your parents thought you had sold one of your short stories for a handsome sum, and that you’d be getting royalties. They’d insisted on keeping their jobs though, but at least they let you pay off the owed rent and stock their fridge.

Your gaze travels from the white gold cufflinks to the understated watch peeking out from under the cuff of your monogrammed dress shirt. Jackie certainly had an eye for detail. The new distressed messenger bag next to your chair captures your attention. Your sister had also insisted on you purchasing a proper bag as well as a leather folio for your resume and transcript. All for show, but necessary.

Now that you looked the part, it remained up to you to play it.

“Amber Liu?” the receptionist softly calls out, her voice as smooth as syrup. “The doctor is waiting.”

You give her a curt nod before standing and buttoning your suit again. The countless times you watched that video your sister had sent you on how to properly button and your jacket helped ingrain the motions into your muscle memory. You surreptitiously check your reflection in one of the windows—everything looked fine, tie in place, pin straight, collar stiff—you’re ready. You follow the sweep of the receptionist’s hand and walk into the interview room.

“Nice to meet you, Amber,” your interviewer welcomes you.

You can’t believe this.

There’s no way.

Your eyes bulge and you nearly swear but rein yourself in at the last moment because what in THE FLIPPING hell is Dr. Irene Bae doing here?

She’s looking at you almost with amusement. But her eyes remain guarded.

“Please, sit,” she points to the chair in front of her.

“What’s going on.” Your voice comes out