This is the main branch of the company, and it shows. The other, a smaller branch but equally known for their exceptional marketing campaigns, resides in the neighboring town of Pineridge. But this is where my idol works. She’s world-renowned, and I’ve studied her projects many times in New York.
I approach the reception desk, where a young woman whose hair is weaved into a tight bun sits behind a curved white counter, looking like she was born with perfect posture. My smile goes on like a mask, and it feels so strained I’m half afraid my face will betray me.
“Hi,” I squeak, my voice jumping an octave and landing somewhere between cartoon chipmunk territory. Brilliant. Absolutely flawless. If the job requires sounding like a startled woodland creature, I’ve nailed it. Fantastic start, Sarah.
“Good morning.” The receptionist shows her white smile. “How can I help you?”
“I’m here for a job interview.” I manage to keep my voice steady this time.
“Of course.” She asks for my name, then slides a visitor’s badge across the counter. “The elevator on the left will take you to the ninth floor.”
Her eyes meet mine, and there’s surprising warmth there. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.” I thread the lanyard over my head and stare down at the badge. My name. A crisp little number beneath it: twelve.
So, there are at least twelve applicants. Twelve people I have to compete with. My stomach drops. I should’ve prepared more.
The elevator doors are sleek brushed steel, reflecting a warped, anxious version of me back at myself. I step inside, press nine, and watch the doors glide shut with a soft chime that sounds far too calm for what’s happening in my chest. For a few precious seconds, I’m alone. Just me and my thoughts. Dangerous territory.
What if I bomb this interview? What if I freeze up?
I straighten my spine and roll my shoulders back, adjusting my posture like I’m buckling on armor one piece at a time. I lift my chin and arrange my face into something calm and collected, like I was born to glide through places like this instead of Googling “how to appear unbothered” in the parking lot. And by the time the doors slide open with another cheerful ding, I’ve shoved my insecurities into a mental junk drawer and slapped a pristine layer of composure over the top.
The ninth-floor hallway stretches out like a gauntlet, lined with identical chairs and bodies perched on them, what must be a dozen other candidates waiting in tense silence. The air feels electrically charged with collective anxiety. So, these people are my competition, all polished résumés and perfect portfolios, nodoubt. I can’t help wondering if their ribs are tight with nerves, too, or if I’m the only one here pretending not to shake.
I take the last empty seat at the end of the row, closing my knees and balancing my portfolio on my lap.
Across from me, a girl with oversized red glasses gnaws on her fingernails, her leg bouncing like it’s hooked up to the power generator dad cranks up when the lights go out during a fierce thunderstorm. She catches me looking and immediately stills, embarrassment flashing across her face.
I offer a small, sympathetic smile. After all, I’m not faring any better. My nails bite crescents into my palm as I wait. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, growing louder with every passing minute, until it feels like the whole hallway is humming with judgment. Compared to Red Glasses and me, everyone else looks composed, polished, unshakable. My thoughts begin to spiral.
What if everything I did in New York means nothing here? What if small-town agencies don’t care about the campaigns I ran, the late nights, the wins I bled for? What if I came back for nothing?
No, not for nothing. For a fresh start. For healing. For proving I can thrive even in the place that broke me.
I glance at my watch for the fifth time in ten minutes, like staring hard enough might make it go faster. One by one, candidates vanish through the frosted glass door and reappear later with faces that range from triumphant to traumatized, as if they’ve gone to war in there and come back changed. The waiting room thins, chair by chair, body by body, and each departure ratchets my anxiety up another notch until it feels like my nerves are strung too tight to hold.
When Red Glasses gets called, she jolts upright like she’s been ejected from her seat. Her notebook and folder slip from her grip and smack the floor with a sharp slap that makes the rest of usflinch in unison. She freezes for half a heartbeat, cheeks flushing, then scrambles to scoop everything up.
“Shoot,” she mutters, dropping to a crouch, her face the same color as her frames.
I lean forward to pick up her notebook. “Here you go.”
“T-thanks,” she stammers, clutching her notebook and folder to her chest like they might try to escape again. Her hands tremble, just slightly, but the grateful smile she gives me is unmistakably real. In a hallway full of polished masks and quiet panic, it’s the first genuine connection I’ve made all morning.
Twenty minutes later, she emerges, shoulders visibly lighter, like she’s set down a weight she’d been carrying all morning. As she passes, she flashes me a quick thumbs-up. The silent message lands in my chest and settles something there. If she survived, I could too.
An older woman with silver-rimmed glasses fills the doorway, gripping her clipboard like a sanctioned instrument of intimidation and wearing the kind of expression that says absolutely nothing is getting past her without proper paperwork. Her gaze flicks to the next line on the page and my pulse kicks hard. “Sarah Lake?”
Every cell in my body seems to freeze simultaneously, then restart with a jolt.
I stand, smoothing my skirt one last time like a ritual, like fabric can steady a shaking body. This is it. The moment that will either launch my career or send me crawling back to my childhood bedroom with failure clinging to me like a second skin.
I step into the interview room, and the door clicks shut behind as I take a seat in the middle.
Three people sit behind a long desk, arranged like a tribunal. Two men, one already studying me with cool, analytical eyes and the other buried in what looks like a stack of candidate profiles,flipping pages like my future is filed somewhere between tabs. And then there’s the woman, the one I recognize instantly despite never meeting her in person, as if her presence has been living in my mind long before today.
Judy Hawthorne. The marketing legend herself. Her dress is extravagant, shoulders puffed like an ’80s prom queen’s fever dream, and it doesn’t just suggest power, it announces it. Owner. The kind of woman who doesn’t need a nameplate to command the room. I hadn’t expected to meet her this early, and the surprise skates straight under my ribs.
