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On the outside, I exude confidence, sporting a sharp outfit that screams everything you may have heard about me is wrong. My black pencil skirt hugs my curves perfectly. I paired it with a beautiful, deep-plum, sleeveless top and a matching blazer, ironing out everything twice this morning. There isn’t a single line or speck of lint on my entire outfit. I appear completely different from what I truly feel inside. However, that's exactly what I aim for. Today, I must make a lasting impression on every individual in this office and eliminate any negativity that may be associated with my name.
I run my hand through my perfectly curled locks.
You can do this.
Fake it till you make it, am I right?
By the end of the day, everyone is going to forget about Greg and whatever venom he may or may not have spread after I left Boston. Karma always has a funny way of coming back and giving people exactly what they deserve.
Exiting the elevator, I walk with confidence toward the expansive glass doors at the end of the hallway. Each click of my heels resonates in perfect union, a rhythm that I fixate on as I twist my butterfly necklace between my fingers, seeking comfort in the cool touch of the metal as I attempt to steady my racing pulse.
Above the doors, a massive, neon-orange sign proudly declares “Bloom Management New York.” Its glowing light overwhelms me. I’m not going to blend in here either, am I?
Have you ever blended in anywhere?
Will you just shut the hell up?
I stand motionless, fixated on my outstretched hand hovering above the metal door handle.
Every fiber of my being feels immobilized, as if time itself has come to a halt. It's a familiar sensation, another instance where I know I'll mess things up. What's the use? I have lived up to my parents' expectations, accomplishing nothing but disappointment and failure. It doesn't even matter anymore. It never has. I am destined to ruin this as well.
Forcing myself to press the invisible “unpause” button, I charge through the impending wave of emotions and swing open the heavy, glass door. This office dwarfs the one in Boston, boasting luxury in every aspect. White marble and granite adorn the entire space, along with vibrant bursts of color and carefully positioned greenery. The minimalist design appears effortlessly executed, designed to attract high-end clientele.
The place is dead. No one behind the massive, stone reception desk yet. Glancing up at the oversized clock, confusion creeps in. It’s well past eight thirty, and I expected more activity by this time. Perhaps they follow a different schedule here—starting late and working even later? Double-checking Tracy’s welcome email, I don’t find anything out of the norm nor any mention of irregular working hours. Despite her instruction for a nine a.m. start, I showed up slightly early because I believe in strong first impressions and like to get a lay of the land.
One positive thing I’ve learned while working for a PR company is the necessity of being ever-ready. Ready is the wrong word—more like standing there, feet apart, arms outstretched while bracing for the multiple fireballs heading your way. Serving and thriving in this industry require the type of preparedness I’ve mastered. Besides, I never half-ass anything.
“Hello?” I call out into the silence.
Peeking around the corner, my eyes catch on a colossal wall covered with floor-to-ceiling, lush greenery. Intrigued, I reach out, feeling the soft leaves beneath my fingertips. My gaze continues past the wall, revealing a vast, industrial brick chamber lined with desks and white laptops. Everything seems perfectly in order, with the computers gleaming in pristine white, undisturbed. It’s almost like this place is haunted by tidy ghosts. How on earth do they maintain this level of neatness? Clearly, this office has a different culture and work ethic than the one back in Boston. And maybe that’s a good thing.
My attention is drawn by the clicking of shoes behind me. I turn to see a tall woman walking directly toward me. She is engrossed in her phone, her perfectly straight, platinum-blonde hair partially obscuring her face. Thick, black-framed glasses adorn her features, and as she approaches, I notice a sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks. She giggles to herself, her fingers dancing rapidly on the glass screen of her phone. Finally, she looks up, revealing big, round, hazel eyes that meet mine, causing her face to light up with a wide grin.
“Hi! You must be Zoe.” She closes the distance between us and wraps me in a tight hug, squeezing me half to death with her strong grip. She pulls back, grimacing and adjusting her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I hope you’re a hugger, and if not, I’m so sorry for just throwing myself at you like that.”
I chuckle nervously. “It’s fine. Nice to meet you. Yes, I’m Zoe. Are you Tracy?”
“Oh, God, no. I’m Olivia, but everyone calls me Via. I’m Tracy’s assistant.”
“That’s a great name.”
She shrugs, smiling again, and I notice a dimple in the bottom of her right cheek. Her bubbly personality reminds me of a Christmas elf, and she’s just as nice too.
“Thank you. Come,” Via says, grabbing my hand. “I’ll show you around before Tracy gets in. She usually doesn’t get here until around ten.”
“Great. Thank you,” I say, trotting behind her.
“I’m so happy you’re here. You’re going to love Tracy; she’s a badass.”
I release the nervous energy that was tormenting me earlier, telling my anxiety that she is an absolute asshole and needs to take a hike.
We’ve been walking for what feels like twelve straight hours. This place is huge, and I didn’t need to see every nook and cranny on day one. But try telling Via that. She is strong-willed and on a mission this morning. I’ve behaved like the perfect employee—staying quiet, taking notes, answering questions only when spoken to. Aaron would be proud.
But a transfer shouldn’t be this intensive. I’m getting hangry and hurting from these stupid heels.
“And here we are, home sweet home,” Via says, pointing to a large, rectangular desk with two computers on either side. Behind the desk sits a massive office with more glass doors. Apparently, no one likes privacy here. Won’t be catching Tracy picking her nose—God, I hope not anyway.
“I’m on the right, and you’re on the left. Don’t worry, I’ll try to keep the clutter on my side.”
