The work I’d been proud of. In those late nights and stubborn drafts, that work became more than a project. It became proof: I wasn’t just playing at marketing. I could build a future with it, brick by brick, idea by idea.
On the wall it hangs, framed and polished and paraded beneath the light like a trophy that never belonged to me, like the sleepless nights, the scraped-down grit, the stubborn vision were always meant to be swallowed whole and repackaged as someone else’s triumph.
Though my knees threaten to fold with every step, I force myself forward anyway, as if my body has decided to stage its rebellion in silence, one tremor at a time. By sheer will, I make it to the end of the hallway, where imposing wooden doors rise to the ceiling, the Lantern Bridge logo etched into the surface like a seal.
A small cluster of people hovers there, talking amongst themselves. And then I see her, the woman in vibrant red glasses, lifting a hand in greeting, her smile wide and real, like she’s been waiting for me and is glad I finally arrived.
“Hey! It’s you from the interview!” she calls out, bouncing slightly on her toes.
“Yeah, hi!” I manage to return her smile, extending my hand while trying to push thoughts of Jake’s betrayal to the back of my mind. “Sarah.”
“Wendy,” she says, shaking my hand with an enthusiasm that’s almost contagious. “You ready for this? I can’t believe we’re actually here.”
“I know, right?” I say, scanning the area like I’m checking for threats. No Jake. A small mercy. For him.
If I’d spotted him, I might have done something reckless, something satisfying, and called him out for what he is, an idea-thieving, credit-stealing, heart-breaking jerk who somehow keeps walking away clean.
“I was so nervous during the interview,” Wendy confesses, nudging her red glasses higher on the bridge of her small nose. “They asked me, like, a million questions.” The laugh that follows is light but unsteady, as if the nerves are still in there, bouncing around her ribs, refusing to settle.
“All right, everyone,” a sharp voice quiets the chatter, “let’s get started.”
Out of the wooden doors steps a tall brunette, her hair the straightest I’d ever seen. The red dress clings to her like skin, tight at the knees, forcing her stride into a careful glide, her legs brushing together with each step
“I’m Amanda Morgan,” she says. “I’ll be walking you through orientation today. Follow me, please.”
Her smile is polite, yes, but it’s too smooth, too practiced, like something lifted straight from a corporate handbook and sharpened into place in front of a mirror. A woman who probably schedules her spontaneity and has her entire life mapped down to the minute, neat as a spreadsheet.
We trail after her as she marches us through the office, gesturing at departments and cubicles and glass-walled conference rooms with the flat, dutiful enthusiasm of a tour guide who’s recited the same script a thousand times and no longer has the energy to pretend any of it is exciting.
The place is sleek and bustling, humming with motion and purpose, packed with people who look like they’ve found their calling, or at least nailed the art of pretending they have. They move with easy confidence, unbothered, undistracted, like nothing in the world could knock them off course.
I want to be like that.
With the cafeteria in view, Amanda halts and indicates the coffee station with a casual flick, like she’s granting permission rather than making a suggestion. “Grab a cup if you’d like,” she says. “We’ll head to the conference room next.”
Wendy and I trade a look and make a beeline for the coffee station like it’s rations on the last day of winter. I pour myself a cup, and the warm, rich aroma rises in a curl of comfort, brushing my face, stealing one precious second from the anxiety that’s been tightening in my stomach like a knot.
This might get me through the day. Or at least the next hour.
Once we’re sufficiently caffeinated, Amanda shepherds us into a conference room ruled by a long, glossy table, its surface catching the overhead lights with such perfect clarity it looks like a still lake on a cloudless day.
We take our seats, and I force myself to anchor in the moment. I’m here. I’m actually here, sitting at a glossy conference table inside one of the most respected marketing firms in the country.
This is my dream.
But it starts to feel more like a nightmare the second Amanda speaks again.
“Let me introduce you to your supervisor.” She says it like she has zero interest in her current task. “Jake Matthews.”
Nausea slams into my stomach fast, and my hand freezes halfway to my coffee cup.
Walking in with that composed, professional ease, calm and collected, wearing confidence as if it’s stitched into his suit, as if he didn’t leave me heartbroken years ago and walk away clean, Jake hovers over us. His dark hair is shorter than the last time I saw him. His gaze sweeps the room, and when it lands on me, his eyes widen, just for a heartbeat, before his expression goes stoic.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this. Maybe I should’ve thought twice before accepting Judy’s offer.
I take a sip of my coffee, determined to look normal, but my body decides to stage its own revolt. My throat catches. I choke. Coffee goes the wrong way and I’m coughing and sputtering, eyes watering, while Wendy pats my back with the brisk, concerned efficiency of someone who’s had first aid training and is not about to let me die of embarrassment on day one.
“You okay?” she whispers.
