Except when she went to search for a client’s name in her inbox, her fingers betrayed her.
She stared at the search bar, horrified.
Chase Montgomery
"Oh, for the love of—Fuck—" She slammed the laptop shut like it had personally offended her.
By noon, she had officially abandoned all hopes of productivity and did the only thing she could think of—called Mallory, her personal agent of chaos, for emergency emotional support.
Mallory, bless her heart, was far too entertained by Savannah’s breakdown.
"Okay, so what I’m hearing is that you're an absolute mess," Mallory said cheerfully over the phone, like she was discussing the weather and not Savannah’s emotional collapse.
Savannah groaned, flopping onto her bed like a woman in distress. “I feel like I’m about to throw up and pass out at the same time. It’s like my body is confused about whether I should be excited or terrified.”
“Ah,” Mallory mused. “Classic emotional whiplash. I’ve seen this before.”
"Mallory, I cannot stress enough how NOT helpful you are right now."
Mallory chuckled. “Fine. I’ll be serious. Take a deep breath. Eat something. Hydrate. And for the love of God, do not show up looking like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. You need to radiate confidence.”
Savannah huffed. “Confidence? I just tripped over my own pajama pants walking to the bathroom.”
"Then maybe consider pants that don't try to assassinate you."
By 3 p.m., Savannah had stress-cleaned her entire apartment, gone on a walkto ‘clear her head’ (which accomplished nothing except making her look like a lunatic for muttering hypothetical conversations with Chase out loud), and tried on no fewer than eight different outfits.
None of them were right.
All of them screamed, I am having a full-blown emotional crisis.
So, at 6 p.m. sharp, Mallory arrived for damage control.
She plopped onto Savannah’s bed like a judgmental fashion critic, laptop discarded, all business. “Alright. Show me what you’ve got.”
Savannah grabbed the first outfit she had put together and did a slow, half-hearted spin. “This?”
Mallory grimaced. “Too corporate.”
Savannah groaned, grabbing another option. “This?”
Mallory squinted. “Too ‘I’m trying too hard.’”
Savannah threw up her hands. “I give up!” She said sarcastically.
Mallory let out a dramatic sigh and pushed herself up. “Move. Let the expert work.”
After a flurry of activity—which included Mallory tossing half of Savannah’s wardrobe onto the floor, muttering about how Savannah apparently had a hidden collection of tragic beige sweaters—the final result was in place.
Savannah stood in front of the mirror.
Fitted black top.
High-waisted jeans.
Casual. Effortlessly flattering. The kind of outfit that said, “Oh, I just threw this on,” but actually took 45 minutes and a minor existential crisis to choose.
Mallory added a dainty necklace, a pair of ankle boots, and stepped back, smirking like a woman who had just solved a national emergency.
