I shove my dirty running gear in a separate tote bag, then change into the working clothes I brought over: a black leather pencil skirt and emerald blouse that makes my green eyes pop. To intensify the effect, I shadow my eyelids to get that smoky look. At the office, exceptionally prim grooming comes with the territory and is expected of every employee.
Makeup done, I pull my natural strawberry red hair up in an intentionally messy bun, put on a bold shade of red lipstick, and wink at my image.
I’m the picture of a young, successful woman ready to conquer the fashion world.
From Gerard’s Park Avenue condo, I can walk to work. The weather’s perfect, and the late spring breeze only adds to my good mood. I wear foldable flats up to the edge of Central Park and then switch gears: plastic ballerinas for gel-cushioned pumps. I never show myself in public without heels. Not since that time when I went to Six Flags in my twenties wearing sneakers, and an attendant asked to check my height before he allowed me on a ride. For the record, I was a good six inches above the minimum.
In front of my office’s skyscraper, I pause for a second to admire the building. Working at Northwestern, the publishing powerhouse of Manhattan, always gives me a thrill of pride. This is the place everyone wants to be. The building itself screams luxury and power from every glass panel and metal joint.
Ahead of me, the automatic doors sweep open, a strong, cool draft tightening my pencil skirt against my legs. Even the air feels expensive. As usual, I’m the first one in. Good. I always enjoy working in the quiet hours of the morning.
I stuff my duffle bag out of sight under my desk and turn on my laptop.
Will HR call me? Or will it be my new boss? This is the first time I’ve been promoted to a different department, so I’m not sure if the procedure is similar to same-department promotions. In the past, my current boss always delivered the news, but since I’ll no longer work for her…
My landline trills, jolting me out of my thoughts.
I inhale, exhale, and then answer. “Blair Walker, Évoque Magazine.”
“Miss Walker, this is Emilia Peterson from Human Resources. Please come up to my office right away.”
“Absolutely, I’ll be there in two minutes.”
Emilia is our Talent Manager Coordinator—and she wants to see me. With a cheek-aching smile on my face, I rush to the elevators.
One floor up, I knock on Emilia’s door, my stomach knotting in anticipation.
A muffled voice comes from behind the panel wall. “Come in.”
If voices could be described as lipstick shades, Emilia’s would be a Chanel Rouge. Suave. Confident.
I step into the office. Emilia—tall, platinum blonde, and lethally thin—lifts her icy gaze from some papers and says, “Ah, Blair. Please close the door and sit down.” She gestures at the white chair in front of her white desk. Cold blue eyes settle on me. “Would you like some water?”
More some champagne. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Very well, let’s get straight to it.” She folds her hands and sighs. “As you know, the position of Junior Fashion Editor was extremely coveted…”
Was? Is it mine now? I can’t wait for her to say it, but I politely let her continue with her perfunctory speech. I can wait a few more minutes before I ask about the pay rise and extra benefits.
“…the race was tight, and you were an honorable runner-up…”
I nod my approval before my thoughts screech to a halt. Wait, what? Isn’t this the part where she congratulates me and assigns me a new corporate phone? I was really hoping to get the new iPhone.
“What do you mean runner-up?”
“I mean you were an outstanding candidate.”
“But not the winner?” My voice isn’t nearly as steady as I’d like it to be—it projects a 99cents lip balm at best, regardless of the actual shade I’m wearing.
“Unfortunately, no. You didn’t get the position,” Emilia confirms, never taking her eyes off me.
“Who?”
“It doesn’t really matter—”
“It does matter. Annabelle herself said sales figures would count toward the final decision. My numbers are better than everybody else’s!”
“Your numbers are good, but not the best.”
“No other sales manager signed as many contracts as I did this past year. I’ve put in more overtime and weekends to make sure of that. No one beats my numbers.”
“Someone did,” Emilia insists, her tone severe.
“Who?” I ask again.
For the first time, the corporate witch lowers her gaze, a shadow of guilt crossing her face. “Aurora.”
“Aurora?” I repeat. “But her figures are awful!”
Emilia looks at me again, impassible. “One of her long-standing clients increased their expenditure considerably… it tipped the balance in her favor.” Again, I sense she’s holding something back.
Comprehension hits me. “You mean her mother bought the editor position for her!”
Aurora’s mother, Rebecca Vanderbilt, is an iconic fashion designer with the power of old and new money combined. I never stood a chance against that kind of firepower.
“I know it might seem unfair…”
Are my ears functioning? Is our dear Talent Manager Coordinator trying to deny the injustice?
“Because it is unfair,” I say. “You’re ignoring the best employee to promote the one with a pedigree.”
Emilia’s nostrils flare. “We’re promoting the employee who brought the magazine the most business, regardless of how they got it.”
No point in arguing further. It’s clear the decision is irrevocable. Emilia’s immaculate white desk blinds me as I fight the tears threatening to shed. I take a few moments to steady myself before asking, “Is that all, am I free to go?”
“I understand you want to get this over with. You’ll see we’ve put together an extremely generous severance package…” Emilia switches to a brisk, down-to-business tone so quickly it dizzies me.
“Severance?” I repeat.
“Yes. This might seem like a setback at first, but I’m really doing you a favor here.”
“A favor?” I sound like a talking parrot, only able to repeat the
