“I am looking forward to learning from you,” I say, matching his artificial warmth.
“Of course you are.” He wipes his palm on his trousers afterward. Almost casual enough to miss. “I will make sure you understand our standards. We have a very specific way of doing things here.”
Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Perhaps he’s just tired or stressed. First-day nerves can turn a shadow into a monster.
Hawthorne steers me away, his hand barely touching my elbow. “Miles has been here for fifteen years. He knows every client’s history.”
What he doesn't say is that Miles sees me as a threat to those fifteen years.
The rest of the morning is a blur of passwords and protocols. I am relieved to find I recognize the software, and the coffee tastes like the first sip of financial stability. My desk is in thecenter of the pod, devoid of walls or privacy, surrounded by people who’d prefer an empty chair.
Around noon, respite arrives in designer heels.
“Lunch. Now.” Zoe doesn't wait for an answer. She links her arm through mine and marches me toward the elevator.
She takes me to a sandwich place where a meal doesn't require a loan. “So? Surviving the creative cave?”
“Miles hates me already.”
“Miles hates everyone. Last year, he made an intern cry for using a serif font on a mockup.” Zoe takes a bite of her sandwich. “The intern’s choice was actually better. That’s why Miles really hated him.”
“Comforting.”
“Look, everyone's scared. We lost twelve people last quarter. You being here means someone else isn't.” She reaches across to squeeze my hand. “Hawthorne hired you himself. That means something. He doesn't make mistakes.”
I want to believe her. I need to believe her.
Back at my desk, I bury myself in work, studying every campaign they've run over the past year and memorizing brand voices and client preferences. Miles walks by occasionally, never stopping, hovering long enough to make me wonder if I'm doing something wrong.
By seven, the office is mostly empty. I'm still at my desk, sketching concepts for a campaign that isn't due for weeks, when Hawthorne stops by.
“Go home, Emma. It's your first day.”
“Just wanting to get ahead.”
He sits on the edge of my desk, informal in a way that feels practiced. “Can I give you some advice?”
I nod, maybe too eagerly.
“This job will take everything you give it and ask for more. Set boundaries now, or you'll burn out before you ever getto shine.” He stands, straightening his jacket. “We hired you for your talent, not your ability to live at your desk. Fresh perspective needs rest.”
I watch him walk back to his office, something loosening in my chest. My first impression was right. He's not just polished, he's actually decent. In a place like this, it feels rarer than it should.
***
On Tuesday morning, I try to bridge the gap. I stop at a bakery near my apartment and buy a dozen croissants, still warm and smelling of butter. I arrange them on a plate from the canteen and set them near the coffee station as a peace offering.
“Oh, how sweet,” a woman named Rachel says, pausing by the plate. “I would, but I’m doing keto. Carbs are basically poison.”
“Intermittent fasting,” says the designer behind her. “My window doesn't open until noon.”
“Maybe later,” someone else murmurs without slowing down.
By eleven, the croissants are still there, going stale under the fluorescent lights.
In the canteen, the same people who couldn't possibly eat carbs line up for the subsidized cake. Rachel takes two slices.
I tell myself it's not personal. They don't know me yet. Once they see I'm not here to threaten anyone, things will warm up.
