“Right; Emma. The rest of the team is waiting. Follow me.”
I walk beside her, feeling slightly shorter than usual, which is saying something, because I’m not short. But Brenda? Brenda makes me feel like I am a pocket-size version of myself.
She leads me to what they call “the fishbowl”—a big, glass-walled room with desks and enough startup-chic energy to power a WeWork.
When I open the heavy glass door, the team is already in there whispering and laughing. They all go quiet the second I walk in.
I smirk. “Okay, just say it already.” I drop my bag on the last open desk—there’s a sticky note on it that saysEmma. Of course it does. “Oh, desk reserved and everything? How sweet.” I glance at Brenda.
She frowns, walks over to the note, and squints. “I didn’t write that,” she says. “That’s Mr. Walker’s handwriting.”
I look at the blue sticky again. I recognize it instantly. “Oh…” My voice comes out thinner than I intended. “That was… thoughtful of him, don’t you think?”
My team gives me thatknowinglook. They’re good people—four women, three men, all creative and kind and exactly the kind of chaos you want in a work family.
“If you need anything,” Brenda says, backing toward the door, “you’ve all got system access. You can email me anytime.” She points to the smaller office across the hall. “That’s me, right there.”
Where’s Luca’s office?I wonder.
“Thanks, Brenda,” I answer.
The team chimes in, too.
“Is everyone all set?” I ask, clapping my hands together.
“This place is AMAZING,” Amanda gushes, barely hiding her excitement.
She’s not wrong. The office looks like it belongs in a glossy magazine—rows of sleek white desks lined with ergonomic chairs, a snack corner stocked like a boutique market, and lighting that flatters everything it touches. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with Miami sunshine, bouncing off glass partitions and polished concrete floors. There’s a quiet hum of energy, the kind that sayswe have our shit together—and we want everyone to know it.
“Did you go to the kitchen yet?” Sam asks, grinning like he’s just discovered buried treasure. He’s lanky, all elbows and enthusiasm, with curly hair that refuses to be tamed and a hoodie that looks one size too big. “Fridge is full of stuff. Like, you can take anything. FOR FREE.”
“Okay, okay, don’t overreact.Great Ideashad perks too,” I say, trying to keep us grounded.
“Yeah, but boss,” Sam says, eyes wide, “they have options. Like, fancy options—not the Kirkland ones that Chad insists are the same.”
“And your desk’s the most private one,” Amanda adds, her voice warm with approval. She’s petite but carries herself like she’s six feet tall—sharp bob, bright eyes that miss nothing, and a stack of color-coded folders tucked against her chest like an accessory.
I sit, unpacking my things, and start booting up my laptop—until I feel it.
A strange, invisible pressure.
I glance up… and there he is. Luca. Sitting in his office across the hall, watching me. I lift my hand in a small, awkward wave. Smile tight. He nods once. Then presses a button that tints the glass, completely blocking me out.
Oof. Ice cold.
We jump straight into brainstorming mode. We already have some structure in place—because Luca is a detail-obsessed maniac—but now it’s about action plans. I've done this a million times. In New York, here in Miami. I know the drill.
But this time I need it to be perfect. Not because I want to impress Luca or anything.
…Okay, maybe atinybit.
I start organizing our wall with glass markers. Everyone’s contributing. I’m leading, standing, directing, and listening.
“Sam,” I say gently, “it’s not that I don’t like your idea. I just think we need to take it in a different direction. People want to seebehindthe brand now. Real, human stories. I want this to be an open book.”
That’s when the door opens. Luca walks in. Silence falls. He grabs a chair and sits in the back of the room, like a king waiting to be entertained. “Go on,” he says, voice flat.
Go on? GO ON?! My brain just short-circuited. I stand there, mouth open, absolutely blank. The words have all fled the building.
