And you know what? Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe I misread it. But since then, I haven’t been able to get him off my mind, even more so than normal.
“HEY! WATCH IT, LADY!” a cab driver leans out his window and screams at me, slamming on his blaring horn.
The norm in Manhattan, but getting hit by a car isn’t on my bingo card this year.
Startled, I step back onto the sidewalk, nearly catching my stiletto and falling backward in the process.
“God dammit,” I whisper to myself, placing my hand against my chest. My heart batters behind my rib cage as I blow out a shaky breath.
Looking across the street, the crosswalk indicator shines green, the words CROSS illuminated, proving it was my right of way. “Jackass,” I mutter, fear transforming into annoyance.
“That was a close one,” a woman says from behind me with a snarky attitude, and I throw a glare over my shoulder before I try my luck again. My heels click against the asphalt as I hurry across the street. This time, I’m not almost turned into a pancake.
“You’re late,” my boss, Shelby, chastises as I breeze through the doors to her office ten minutes later, not bothering to set my things down first. I’m late for our morning meeting, and she hates when people keep her waiting.
“Well, you’re lucky I’m alive,” I sass, dumping my purse onto the chair to my left as I take the one on the right. “Cab drivers are the worst.”
“It would have been very inconvenient if you died,” she says in a dry tone, looking up at me from scattered sketches all over her desk. “We have a lot to plan for fashion week and not a lot of time.”
“We still have a solid three months.”
She glares at me. “You’ve been doing this job long enough to know how much time is needed. Or have you learned nothing?”
Shelby makes Miranda Priestly fromThe Devil Wears Pradalook like a saint.
But she’s right. I have been doing this job for long enough. I’ve been a junior design intern for Shelby Tomè forsixyears now, which is five years too many to be an intern. Especially at twenty-eight years old.
I only tolerate the bullcrap Shelby puts me through because I don’t actually need to work—I do it because I love fashion. My family wasblessedwith generational wealth. We have loads of money, and I have a trust fund big enough to get America out of debt, all thanks to my grandfather, who left a disgustingly large inheritance to my father when he kicked the bucket. By investing early in a large majority of the brands we all know, love, and use today, he ensured the Lancasters would never have to work a day in their lives again.
Which is why I put up with a rude and entitled woman with a superiority complex who’s refused to promote me.
Because I love myjob.
Although, perhaps it’s my near-death experience, or I’ve just finally had it with her attitude, but as I sit across from my boss as she goes back to ignoring me, her words ring like a church choir in my head.
Or have you learned nothing?
Staring down at the hem of my skirt, I focus on the black stitching, my eyes blurring slightly as I replay the words, getting angrier and angrier by the second.
“I want a promotion,” I finally say, my voice steadier than I imagined it would be. My gaze flicks up to her. She’s still looking at the designs scattered across her glass desk, but even with her eyes averted, I see her roll them.
“You’re not ready,” she tells me simply, not bothering to give me the respect of eye contact as she rifles through the papers.
“It’s been six years,” I argue. “I’m more than ready. I practically run Tomè’s section of fashion week.”
Shelby laughs her fake, dismissive laugh. “You’re adorable, Raina. But you’re much better suited as my junior design intern. Plus, there are no open positions available in the company. Perhaps later this year.”
“Then I quit.” My own voice sounds foreign to me as I say the two words that are long overdue, but they feel right.
Immediately, Shelby looks up with a hint of shock across her face as she takes me in. I keep my chin held high, not backing down and not wavering from my decision.
I can see the argument on the tip of her tongue, so before she has the satisfaction of speaking again, I stand and smooth my skirt, then grab my bag off the chair beside me. I don’t owe her anything—not after six years and herstillnot thinking I’m capable of being more than an intern.
If I wanted to, I could have my own fashion empire at the touch of a metaphorical button, and now maybe I’ll do just that and prove hownot readyI really am.
The door to her office slams closed behind me as I stride to my desk. Grabbing my office tote from under it, I start tossing in all of my personal belongings, huffing in irritation as I do.
“What happened?” Katia, another intern, asks, walking up to my desk. She pops her bubble gum obnoxiously, placing her manicured hand down on top of a pile of notebooks stacked on my desk.
