She keeps her hand clamped around my wrist, her grip cold and unyielding. Her unblinking dark eyes lock onto mine. The room’s temperature seems to drop, and I shiver as a film of white clouds her gaze.
“This one.” Her voice fractures into a haunting symphony of echoes, and the air vibrates with a chorus of unseen spirits as she takes a card from the spread and holds it out to me. “Take it. It’s yours.Take it, Hannah.”
I stare at her, too frightened and confused to think.
She thrusts the card at me like it’ll burn her if she’s not rid of it soon. “Take it andget out.”
I hesitate, fear twisting in my gut. I don’t want to take the card, but she hurls it against my chest with surprising force. My heart hammers, my fingers trembling as I grab the card and my things. Panic surges through me, and I run. The front door’s bell clangs like a gong when I rip it open and rush out into the frigid night.
The cold air slaps my face, shocking my system as I stumble out onto the dimly lit street. Luna’s neon light flickers above me, eerie shadows thrown across thepavement while I steady myself, my breath coming in puffs of vapor.
Standing in the glow of the store’s sign, I flip over the card. It’s blank. And then, as if stirred by an invisible hand, a cloud of silver swirls across the card’s surface. The air around me hums, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Slowly, words materialize in glittering ink as if whispered into existence:See the door and open it.
I stare at the words, my mind racing.
Behind me, the neon lights of Luna’s Twilight Tarot flicker one last time before they go out.
Two
See the door and open it.
I stare at the polished surface of the conference room’s table. The swirling script that appeared on the tarot card the night before bounces through my brain. Next to me, my senior VP taps her rose-red nails against a branded coffee mug. The reminder of the rose, of the red room, of Eleanor, makes me shiver. I try to focus my attention on Jade as she recounts a story to our clients that sounds hilarious but that I can barely hear over the thundering of my nervous heartbeat.
For three years, I’ve been putting in unpaid overtime and pulling all-nighters, working my ass off to get a chance like this: My first client pitch. My first campaign. The moment I’ve been dreaming about since college.
See the door and open it.
“…and that’s when I realized”—Jade leans back in her Hans Wegner swivel chair, her brown curls bouncingagainst her shoulders—“renting camels for team building in Illinois was not my brightest idea!”
Laughter erupts, and on the ninety-eight-inch screen hanging on the wall above the conference table, LuminaLuxe’s CEO, Brad Major, cracks up along with his two senior marketing managers.
Just as it dies down, I join the laughter, way too loud and entirely too late, and avert my gaze from the raised eyebrows of LuminaLuxe’s CEO. The floor-to-ceiling windows lining one wall of our pristine conference room are streaked with snow, and even though it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, the Chicago sky is gray and dense. The waters of Lake Michigan reflect the monochrome above, a jarring contrast to the vibrant peacock of jewel tones splashed throughout Posh Pulse’s conference room. From the rich eggplant of the carpet to the mulberry-and-gold-patterned wallpaper, the entire office is painted in royal purple and shiny gold, like drowning us in regal colors will force us to be more successful.
I shuffle my notes, a smile plastered on my face. Across the table, Stephanie swings her long blond hair over her shoulder as she leans in to whisper to our supervisor, James. They exchange hushed words, and she throws her head back, laughing.
Fucking Stephanie.
Both of us have been at Posh Pulse for the past three years, and I’ve never seen her look anything less than perfect. She’s the royal pop of color while I’m nothing but washed-out gray. My waist-length muddy-brown hair hardly ever behaves, and I’m sure my thrift-store designer dress isn’t fooling anyone. How Stephanie affords Louboutins on an entry-level salary is beyondme. Most months I can barely make my rent.
My phone lights up and lets out a Chewbacca-roar Slack notification. My cheeks heat as I snatch it up and silence it before glancing at the message.
Stephanie:Your notes are so cute. I love what you added to the pitch about helping the poor.
Stephanie:Who knew the savior of the working class wore last decade’s Dior.
Stephanie:Btw, rolling out of bed and putting on just anything was daring.
Stephanie:No matter what anyone else says, you look great in pilling couture.
I glance up, and she cuts her green eyes to me, wrinkling her button nose with a smile as fake as her swollen lips.
Fucking Stephanie.
I’m not the savior of the working class and have never tried to be. I want to make a difference—a positive change—and LuminaLuxe will agree to do just that when I tell them what these donations will do for their image and their tax deductions.
“Well, we’re excited to hear what you have for us today!” Brad cheers with an enthusiastic clap that makes me jump. “Madelyn promised this was a cutting-edge idea.”
