CHAPTER 1
THE LUCKY SUIT
EMMA
They sayyou can’t put a price on a fresh start, but my landlord begs to differ. If reinvention is a luxury, then I’m currently living well beyond my means.
I lie on the single bed in my shoebox studio and listen to the pipes bicker in the wall like an old married couple, waiting for my alarm to signal the start of a day that needs to end in a win. I have no intention of letting the economic undertow pull me under because I need this job to anchor me. I need to know that leaving Ashford and burning my old life to the ground didn’t mean I burned my worth along with it.
On the ceiling, a fist-sized water stain advances a little more each week, spreading like a slow-motion disaster I can’t afford to fix. I’ve named it The Blob, and if it finally drops on me in the night, I hope I’ll be asleep when it happens.
The phone vibrates on the nightstand, and my thumb finds snooze on muscle memory alone. This is my fourth alarm, staggered by fifteen minutes. I’ve been resting because I know how much energy it takes to pretend everything is fine.
Outside the foggy window, the city is still sleepwalking through the early morning haze. A few pedestrians lurch by on the cracked sidewalk, hunched in their private fogs of vapesmoke, moving with the determined exhaustion of people who have forgotten they can ask for more. The best thing about living at the edge of Silverpoint is that nobody expects you to look alive before noon. The worst thing is that even if you did, nobody would care. I care, and that has to be enough to get me through the door today.
I grab the last packet of instant coffee, the one with the fake French name that makes me feel sophisticated for three seconds, and add hot tap water that’s never quite hot enough. A bitter aftertaste clings to my tongue, but the chemical jolt works. At least the scent is almost like the real thing if I drink it fast enough.
I’ve been here three weeks, and the boxes still wear SINCLAIR tags in bold letters. My parents’ wedding photo sits in the top box, buried under art supplies and the collection of documents that prove I exist on paper even when I feel like I’m disappearing.
In that picture, Mom had perfect hair, and Dad wore a suit two sizes too big that he somehow pulled off with a grin that could sell ice to anyone. I haven’t had the nerve to hang it, because hanging it means this apartment is my new home when I still have no means of staying. I swallow hard against the sting of tears because I have a future to secure, and I can't afford the luxury of a breakdown today.
The phone vibrates again, and my mouth goes dry at the cascade of notifications on the screen. Jobless claims have spiked for the third consecutive week, and the markets are in freefall. To top it off, an email from my landlord reminds me that rent is due in one week, and the tension crawls up my neck like poison.
The cherry on top of this disaster sundae is a text from J. I swipe it away so hard I nearly drop the phone, my whole body recoiling from those three dots that threatened to become wordsI can’t handle. James doesn’t need to exist today. He doesn’t get to occupy a single second of my time when I’m barely holding myself together with cheap coffee and spite.
In the mirror, I look like someone halfway through a nervous breakdown who has committed to faking functionality. The circles under my eyes are permanent residents, so dark they look like bruises. My jawline is sharper. My hair is the color of honey left out in the sun too long, and in this unforgiving bathroom light, it looks more mousy than the strawberry blonde I used to cultivate with care.
I lay out the portfolio with the reverence of someone handling religious artifacts. It holds my professional life in a dozen carefully curated pages of ad concepts and campaign mockups. These pages represent six years of hard work that James couldn’t take from me. I flip through them out of habit, checking for hidden landmines of memory. There aren't any today.
I’ve got this,I tell myself, though the words feel as hollow as a slogan for a product that doesn't work. It’s the same song and dance I’ve performed several times this month.
The bathroom is a postage-stamp annex with peeling linoleum, but the water pressure is excellent. I pull my hair up and take a scalding shower until my skin is pink, then apply makeup in quick, practiced strokes. Concealer for the late nights, foundation to even out my skin, and a swipe of mascara to sharpen my gaze. I finish with a nude lipstick that looks professional but approachable. I give myself an extra spray of deodorant because stress sweat is real and unforgiving.
I own exactly three suits that fit my current frame, and I pick the navy one because it's both lucky and clean, a rare combination these days. As I dress, I practice my interview smile in the mirror. It doesn't reach my eyes, but that's fine, maybe even better. Nobody trusts an over-eager applicant anymore.You're supposed to look like you might collapse from exhaustion at any moment because that's the new brand of hustle, the modern proof that you want it enough.
The phone buzzes, and I recognize Zoe's specific text pattern.
Zoe: Hey Em, you ready? You'll do amazing. Remember, they need you more than you need them (even though I know you need this).
She's the only person from my old life who didn't abandon ship when everything imploded. She is the reason I have this foot in the door at GMV, and she knows my work well enough to know I’m not just another applicant.
Me: If I crash and burn spectacularly, make sure HBO gets the rights to the story.
Zoe: Only if they cast someone impossibly gorgeous to play me. Also, stop being dramatic and go get that job. Love you.
The casuallove youmakes my throat tight because it's been so long since anyone said that and meant it. I set the phone down and take one last look in the mirror, adjusting my blazer and checking for signs of desperation. My best heels are a few years old, but a black marker has hidden the scuffs well enough. I slip them on and feel my spine straighten, standing three inches taller. I am a professional.
The city changescostumes depending on your tax bracket. In the morning, Silverpoint’s downtown wears yesterday’s grimelike a badge, and the bus takes me through neighborhoods where every three blocks features the same sandwich chain and the same overpriced bodega. Even the murals look like they were printed by the same tired artist until the color leaked out.
I sit at the front of the bus with my portfolio clamped to my lap, trying not to touch anything while everyone else stares at their screens. I feel the shift in the air as we get closer to the business district, where glass and steel rise to cast long shadows over the streets.
The bus stops in front of the old Providence Mutual building, a giant block of Art Deco nostalgia, and I stand still for a second as the sea wind whips past. It’s colder here, as if the climate is set lower for people with better prospects, and I check my hair in the reflection of the glass doors before heading inside.
The lobby is stripped of anything soft, and a single guard sits at the desk. I nod and sign my name on the tablet with a steady hand.
“Seventeenth. Global Venture Media,” I say, my voice sounding more confident than I feel.
“Over there,” she grunts, gesturing with a perfectly manicured hand.
