Sophie Carter shifted in the sleek leather chair outside yet another glass-walled conference room, her résumé balanced on her knee and her patience stretched so thin it felt translucent.
The clock above the receptionist's head ticked in an unhurried, almost mocking rhythm. Twenty minutes late. Typical. Sophie glanced around the waiting area — brushed steel, frosted glass, and orchids too perfectly alive to be real. A place built to look effortless, while everyone inside fought to keep the cracks hidden.
Her phone buzzed in her palm.
Vivian: "Fingers crossed. Third time's the charm?"
Sophie's lips twitched, but it wasn't quite a smile.
Sophie: "Try eleventh. I'm pretty sure my charm's been repossessed."
She caught her reflection in the black glass of the door. Brown eyes ringed with fatigue, her full lips drawn tight in concentration. The soft wave of her hair brushed her shoulders, darker streaks catching the sterile light — a quiet reminder of the grandmother she'd never met and that stubborn ten percent of heritage a DNA test had offered up like a clue to a story she'd never finish.
The receptionist cleared her throat politely. "They'll be ready for you shortly, Ms. Carter."
Shortly. The single word grated against the frayed edge of Sophie's nerves.
She forced her foot to stop tapping. She couldn't afford to look impatient — even if the waiting room itself had started to feel less like a place of opportunity and more like the holding cell of professional purgatory.
At last, the glass door clicked open. A woman in a perfectly tailored pantsuit, her hair scraped into a severe knot, scanned her clipboard. "Sophie Carter?"
Sophie stood so fast the résumé nearly slid to the floor. "Yes! Hi."
She followed the woman into the conference room. The air felt colder inside, and Sophie was suddenly aware of how loudly her heels clicked against the polished floor.
Four faces waited behind a sleek table. Three men in dark suits, and a woman in a navy dress that whispered authority. No one bothered to stand or even offer a handshake.
"Please, have a seat," the woman said. Her voice was smooth, practiced, and entirely uninterested.
Sophie perched on the edge of the chair, setting her résumé before her like a shield.
"Tell us about your experience with crisis communication," said the man on the left without preamble. His gaze was already flicking back to his tablet.
Sophie drew in a slow, careful breath. "Of course. At Bluebird Media, I was part of a three-person team overseeing brand responses to unexpected incidents. Last March, for instance, I led the drafting of client statements during a data breach, working closely with legal to ensure compliance—"
The man in the center interrupted, barely lifting his gaze. "What was the outcome?"
"We managed to preserve client trust. Sentiment on social media shifted back to neutral within forty-eight hours, and the client saw no long-term loss in engagement," Sophie replied.
One of the men stifled a yawn behind his hand. The woman across from Sophie didn't even blink; she scrolled through Sophie's résumé, thumb brushing across the page like it bored her.
Sophie felt the tightness in her jaw. She forced her voice to stay even.
"I also coordinated direct outreach to stakeholders, which reduced negative press coverage—"
"Any experience with influencer partnerships?" the man in the navy tie cut in.
"Yes," Sophie said quickly. "At Bluebird, I—"
"Big names?"
"A mix of micro and mid-tier influencers. We prioritized authenticity over follower count," she answered.
The man grunted noncommittally, already typing something on his laptop.
Silence fell, heavy and awkward. Sophie's pulse beat at her temples. The woman in the navy dress finally glanced up, her expression as sharp as the line of her collar.
"Why did you leave your last position?"
The question stung, though Sophie had rehearsed the answer dozens of times. "The agency downsized after losing a major account. My role was unfortunately part of the cuts."
Another silence. Someone's phone buzzed on the table. The man in the center answered it, turning away slightly. "Yeah. Tell him I'll call in five."
Sophie swallowed. Her irritation itched at her ribs like a trapped wasp. She kept her back straight, shoulders squared, though every instinct screamed to stand and leave.
The woman spoke again, voice as flat as the conference table. "We're considering candidates with more senior-level exposure to executive teams. How comfortable are you presenting directly to C-suite clients?"
"I'm very comfortable," Sophie said, her tone edged with a coolness she hadn't intended. "I've pitched campaigns directly to client VPs and department heads, and managed briefings with CEOs on sensitive topics."
The woman didn't nod, didn't even pretend to be impressed. Instead, she set Sophie's résumé down and said, "Thank you. We'll be in touch."
The dismissal was so casual, so automatic, it left Sophie momentarily stunned.
"Oh," she said, catching herself. "Thank you for your time."
She gathered her résumé, rose, and walked back through the door, the chill of the air-conditioning still clinging to her skin like a memory she couldn't shake.
Outside, the heat of a New York summer afternoon smacked her across the face. Sophie stepped to the curb, exhaled, and allowed the mask of polite professionalism to slide away.
For a moment, she stood perfectly still, the city moving around her in blurs of color and sound: cabs honking, a bike messenger cursing into traffic, the sweet scent of roasted peanuts drifting from a vendor's cart.
She checked her phone: no new messages.
Her reflection in the screen showed her flushed cheeks, the frustrated tightness around her mouth.
"Brilliant, Carter," she muttered under her breath. "Eleven interviews and I still can't get them to look me in the damn eye."
Three hours later, Sophie found herself on a park bench with a stale croissant, the wrapper crinkling in her hand. Her iced coffee had sweated itself into a pale, watery mess.
The phone pinged with mechanical cheer.
"Thank you for your time today. We've decided to move forward with other candidates."
Sophie read it twice, as if the words might change. They didn't. She tipped her head back, staring at the empty summer sky. A laugh, brittle and exhausted, slipped out before she could stop it.
With a sigh, she tugged her planner from her tote — the leather soft from months of being thumbed through, pages half filled with to-do lists, half with sarcastic reminders.
She scrawled in the margin: "Try not to scream at the next rejection."
Below it, almost defiantly, she added: "Apply anyway."
Tomorrow was another interview — a last-minute referral from a friend of a friend.
Wolf Industries.
She'd barely heard the name before today. But somehow, it felt… different.
For just a moment, Sophie let herself imagine walking into a room where someone might actually listen. Where she might feel wanted instead of merely tolerated. Then she closed the planner, brushed the crumbs from her skirt, and stood up.
Tomorrow would come whether she was ready or not. And if she'd learned anything in these last months, it was this: sometimes, the only thing that keeps you moving forward is the stubborn refusal to stop.