Timeskip: the next day.
I stormed into the office building like an Olympic sprinter who just found out the medal ceremony had free Starbucks.
Correction: I ran.
Correction to the correction: I sprinted for dear life like the last roach surviving a nuclear explosion.
Because I was late. Again.
The time? 8:59 a.m.
The office gates? Closing at 9.
My dignity? Already six feet under.
"Move!" I hissed at a random intern who dared to breathe in my direction. I shoved past him with the kind of determination only a broke employee fearing termination could have.
Did I make it before the doors closed?
Yes.
Why?
Because I'm Usain Bolt's long-lost sister.
Don't ask for DNA proof. My speed just proved it.
I took my phone out, panting like a dying puppy, and caught a glimpse of my face.
Shit. Disaster.
My eyeliner wing looked like it had been drawn by a toddler on a sugar high. My blush? Patchy, like I had lost a bar fight with a tomato. And lipstick…
LIPSTICK?!?!
