I step into the elevator alone and smell the faint antiseptic scent. I turn my back to the mirror. My clothes feel different; I know they don’t fit as they used to, but I can’t change any of that now. I press the button for seventeen and feel the floor drop away as my stomach does a slow, nervous tumble.
I’ve spent six years selling dreams to people who didn’t need them, and now I have to sell the most difficult product of my career. Myself.
For a second, I want nothing more than to call my mom, to hear her say my name the old way, with the “Em” stretched out as if it could last forever. Instead, I focus on my breath to steady myself.
The elevator finally jerks to a stop, doors opening onto a corridor so quiet I wonder if I'm the only survivor.
I steady myself against the cool marble. My hands are shaking, but I pretend it's just the air conditioning.
I fix my jacket, square my shoulders, and buzz the intercom.
There's nothing in the world quite like a corporate lobby at half-capacity. The receptionist buzzes me in with a glance so brief I wonder if I hallucinated it. The carpeted hallway smells of industrial cleaner and air freshener, a signature I now associate with disappointment.
The waiting room is the size of a walk-in closet. There's a glass table with nothing on it but a single, sweating bottle of water and a stack of magazines. Above me, a vent hums softly, and every few seconds I hear the distant ring of an actual, honest-to-god landline phone.
The panel arrives on time and ushers me into a windowless conference room lined with acoustic panels. Three suits sit on the far side, two men and one woman, all perfectly attired.
I sit in the empty chair across from them and set my portfolio on the table like a peace offering. The man with meticulously styled hair that frames his face with sharp angles introduces himself as Mr. Hawthorne, the managing director. The other man is Mr. Alvarez, and the woman is Ms. Rosen. Her posture hints that she could shatter my fragile self-esteem with a single syllable if she felt like it.
They take turns asking questions. It's very civilized, but my armpits are sweating out all my stress. I keep my face relaxed and mildly interested.Look at me, I got it together, I swear.
“Walk us through your résumé,” says Mr. Hawthorne, his voice crisp. I smooth the paper and go through the motions, university, internship, and the previous agency job. I don't give them the messy truth about why I left, and instead, I tell themI am looking for an environment that respects efficiency and creativity. Bullshit.
Ms. Rosen leans forward, her gaze sharp. “You left your last position quite suddenly. Can you speak to that?”
I sip from the water bottle to buy a moment. “I reached a point where I needed to prioritize my own growth, and I’ve always admired the work GMV does. I wanted to see if my skills could contribute to your team.”
Mr. Alvarez gives me a skeptical look, but I don't flinch.
Rosen flips to my LinkedIn on her tablet. “You took a gap year.”
I bite my lip. “Freelancing. And—“ I hesitate, feeling the heat crawl up my neck— “family obligations.”
Hawthorne leans forward and steeples his fingers. “If you were asked to take on a major account tomorrow, how would you approach it?”
I don’t hesitate. “First, I'd audit everything they've tried to find the disconnect between their brand and their customers. People aren't loyal to brands; they're loyal to stories that make them feel less alone. Then I'd prototype three campaign angles and pressure-test them.”
Alvarez smiles, just barely. “You're data-driven, but not afraid to break things?”
“Sometimes you have to break the old story to tell a better one,” I say, keeping my pitch low.
The questions come faster, and I answer each one, whether it's about a hostile client or a budget cut. I notice the clock is fifteen minutes over our hour when finally Hawthorne says, “Well, thank you, Ms. Sinclair. We’ll be in touch.”
I thank them as I gather my things. My hands are numb, but I try to smile like I have no worries in the world.
As I stand, Rosen says, “By the way, I liked your Port-a-Party campaign. Very clever.”
“Thank you,” I say, heat crawling up my cheeks.
The hallway outside is quiet, and I make it two steps before the adrenaline begins to fade. I lean against the wall for a second and count backward from ten before checking my phone and sending Zoe a thumbs-up. I don't know if the job is mine, but I know they saw exactly what I am capable of.
Outside, the sharp winter air is refreshing as the streets buzz with midday activity. I walk back to the bus stop and feel the ache in my calves, but my head is high. Maybe they’ll call and maybe they won’t, but for the first time in months, I don’t feel like a ghost in my own life.
It'll have to be enough.
CHAPTER 2
THE GOLDEN LEASH
