The office thrums with the vibrant chaos of a high-end ad agency, perched on the 20th floor of a glass tower, its floor-to-ceiling windows framing a dazzling view of a sprawling lake and the city's jagged skyline.
I love where I work. It makes me feel powerful and creative.
The interior space pops with color—walls splashed with bold murals of pop-art explosions and neon-lit campaign slogans in fiery reds, electric blues, and sunny yellows, screaming creativity.
I stride into the office, chin up, chest thrust forward in my dress, willing myself to look bold.
Is my chest too out today? This dress might be too tight. No of course not. I am just overthinking because of the client meeting.
My cheeks flush, and I tug at the hem, eyes darting to coworkers typing, chatting, glancing my way as I pass through the front glass doors, head ducking slightly.
They're all watching, aren't they?
Catching my reflection in a glass partition, I pause—the wrap of my dress has slipped, revealing a hint of cleavage, sending a warm flush through me. I adjust it with trembling fingers, pulse quickening, and steady my steps.
My desk waits.
My office, a rare perk for a mid-level creative, is just big enough for a sleek desk cluttered with colorful sticky notes. A ceramic coffee mug that says Design waits to be filled. I move the computer mouse and my laptop screen begins glowing with a half-finished report and a new campaign. I click print.
One wall of my office is a floor-to-ceiling cork board, a chaotic tapestry of pinned mood boards, campaign sketches, and scribbled taglines, the pins glinting under modern pendant lights.
I stand up—before the floor-to-ceiling cork board, its chaotic tapestry of pinned mood boards and campaign sketches alive with vibrant taglines like "Live Bold, Drive Gold" for a luxury car brand, their pins catching the glow of pendant lights.
I find a blank space and pin up a new sketch for a small business app called aCo Digital, its sleek typography and minimalist layout pulsing with potential. My pen moves with purpose, redlining the tagline "Connect, Grow, Thrive" with sharp notes—'tighter phrasing, more dynamic verb?'—for the team's next review, the cork's rough texture grounding my steady hand.
I jot a quick note to myself on a neon-pink sticky: "Consider easier URL than app.aCo.digital—too clunky, brainstorm snappier domain." My fair skin flushes with focus, the faint scent of espresso sharpening my thoughts as I tweak a visual element, sketching a bolder icon to amplify the app's branding, the agency's frenetic energy humming around me.
Dammit!
I drop a handful of aCo campaign papers, sketches and notes scattering across the hardwood floor. The cork board looms, packed with pinned mood boards and taglines, pins glinting under pendant lights.
My fair skin flushes with frustration, my braid starts fraying, my hands fumbling.
The agency's hum pulses around me, a chaotic mess mirroring my own.
Polished hardwood floors reflect the glow, and the air buzzes with keyboards clacking, brainstorming chatter, and bursts of laughter from glass-walled meeting rooms. The scent of fresh espresso from the agency's high-end coffee bar mingles with a faint citrus whiff from a diffuser, barely masking the stress. Men in crisp golf shirts—coral, teal, navy—stride past, their tailored polos exuding casual confidence, while women in designer blouses and stilettos dart between desks, iPads in hand.
I teeter in my heels, struggling to gather my notes without toppling over or splitting my dress, bending awkwardly at the waist. My backside's practically a spectacle, sticking out as I wrestle with the papers. I jam my pen into my hair to free up my hands, cursing softly as it starts to slip.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Mark staring, his eyes glued to my rear like I'm some kind of exhibit.
I straighten up, and when he notices me looking, he flashes a cocky wink and struts into the conference room.
Flushing, I dive back into scooping up the papers, pretending I didn't see him.
I'm dressed to match the agency's flair, my emerald-green wrap dress hugging my slender frame, the fabric catching the light as I move, paired with nude heels that click sharply on the hardwood.
I check myself in the mirror: My fair skin is flushed from the morning's rush and picking up papers, my braid neat but slightly loosened, my glasses perched on my nose.
Ok not bad. I need to focus.
I head to the printer, heels clacking on the polished floor, my wrap dress swaying with each step, trying to project confidence for my campaign presentation.
Is this dress too much today? The wrap feels so loose.
My cheeks warm, and I smooth the fabric down, catching coworkers' glances as I pass the front glass doors, my shoulders hunching slightly.
I really think they ARE staring at me.
In the reflection of a glass panel, I notice the wrap's edge has slipped again, revealing a hint of my bra's lace that sends a flutter of heat through me. I tug it closed, fingers trembling, and consider grabbing my jacket or a pin from my desk to keep it secure.
I'll check my makeup when I get back to my desk.
The printer hums, spitting out my carefully crafted pages, and as the last one slides out, I smack my forehead.
Oh my gosh, how could I forget? I have a pretty brooch at my desk I can use to secure this wrap—perfect, because I'll sweat buckets if I try wearing my jacket over this.
I toss a quick "Morning, Jen!" to the intern juggling a stack of mood boards, her pink scrunchie bouncing as she grins back, and a "Hey, good to see you!" to Karen, the art director, sketching on a tablet in a turquoise top and white blazer suit, earbuds blasting lo-fi beats.
Karen is such a c-you-next-Tuesday.
I'm still edgy from Monday's presentation—a hard-won win despite Sarah's "forgotten" meeting invites and the team's late copy forcing an all-nighter to perfect the slides.
Thinking of c-u-next-Tuesdays always reminds me of Sarah.
Finally back. I secure my wrap dress with the broach. I'm mid-email at my desk, fingers tapping restlessly, the cork board looming with its kaleidoscope of ideas and to-dos, when Sarah glides in.
Guess it's my fault for thinking about the devil. Here she is. In the flesh.
Sarah's heels are silent on the hardwood, her auburn hair in a severe bun.
Does she realize that hair style makes her less feminine and pretty? She's easily a 10 on a bad day but why does she always wear that bun? I muse to myself— it's between a ballerina and military issue.
Her coral blazer is screaming ambition but her fake smile tells me she hates me. "Elise, I'm so sorry about using those copyrighted images in the deck," she says, her voice syrupy with fake regret, her sharp green eyes scanning me. "It's why we couldn't finish your presentation in time. Lucky we still won, right? Oh, and don't forget—last-minute client meeting at 2 p.m. today. I sent the invite… maybe check your spam?" Her smile is razor-thin, and she's gone before I can respond, leaving a whiff of floral perfume.
Another meeting?
And she's blaming me for her screw-up?
I really need to find a way to get better notifications from Outlook. I hate my email. Especially emails from HER.
Heart racing as I check the clock—1:45 p.m. I grab my notebook and phone, heels clicking frantically as I speed-walk toward the conference room. The hardwood amplifies each step. My dress swishes against my thighs, my braid bouncing, nearly colliding with an intern carrying color swatches.
Sarah's playing dirty. I need to do something about it, but what? The office politics here are delicate.
Tote the line. I need this job. and anyone can get laid off at an agency. It's such a revolving door.
I love my job. I love my job. Well I at least mostly like my job?
I burst into the conference room, breathless, my fair skin flushed pink, my braid fraying.
Mark's already there, lounging in a chair, his crisp white shirt under his sport coat stretched across his broad chest, his smirk slick and hair perfect. He is rich and handsome.
What a playboy. I bet they only hired him for that hair and smile. He's not the brightest crayon in the box.
His eyes rake over me, lingering on my dress's neckline, the curve of my hips, clearly undressing me. His grin gets a little bigger and eyebrows rise slightly, seemingly full of ideas, when he notices the broach keeping my wrap in place.
Why are his eyes always on me?
My stomach flips, but I straighten, clutching my notebook like a shield, nodding. "Hello, Mark." I smile politely.
"Looking hot, honey" he whispers, voice low with an edge. "Ready to dazzle the client?" he asks louder for the room. His eyes don't leave me, his smirk widening, his gaze heavy like he can see through me.
"Elise," I correct, tone slightly sharper than I meant.
Play nice, I think. I NEED this promotion.
My voice is just loud enough to cut through the room's hum, drawing a glance from a colleague adjusting a projector screen splashed with a neon campaign mockup. "Yes, I'm ready." I try to course-correct, toe the line, keeping it professional in a way Mark isn't. My heart pounds, fingers tightening on my pen, but he chuckles, leaning closer, his cologne sharp.
"Don't be so tense," he says, eyes glinting with amusement. He sorta sounds like he means well but I can't tell.
I used to think he was cute, but I know his type. He's trouble.
"You fit this place. I might be persuaded to help with that team lead spot—especially if you play nice with me." His words are like syrup or a threat, his gaze still roaming, and my blood goes hot, my fair skin burning with rage. He mistakes it for something else.
Sarah sweeps in, tablet glowing with analytics, her smile all fake concern. "Everything okay?" she asks, eyes darting between us, her tone dripping with calculated sweetness, ready to exploit any misstep. She looks twice between Mark and I.
Nothings going on Sarah. Just trying to land another client without your help.
The client's due any moment, and the room—its walls blazing with vibrant storyboards—feels like a pressure cooker.
The scheming closing in. Emotions are high, for everyone. If we win Sarah or I might get promoted. If we lose there could be layoffs soon.
"All good," I lie, voice tight, heels digging into the hardwood as I adjust my dress, trying to shake off Mark's gaze and Sarah's games.
I need to shut this down—HR is worthless, though. I would be unceremoniously laid off if I told on either of them. Everyone has connections. Confrontation could be career suicide. Everyone talks. Contacts in this job are absolutely everything.
The client should be here any minute, tension crackling as I double-check the lights, projector, and my microphone, ensuring every detail is flawless. I move to the table, aligning the presentation packets in perfect rows, then go around angling each chair for easy access.
God, this has to go perfectly.
Emotions run high—Sarah's pacing nearby, her eyes sharp and assessing, scanning the room. If we nail this pitch, Sarah or I could land a promotion, a chance to finally shine.
But if we bomb?
My stomach twists at the thought of layoffs, the rumors swirling. I'm anxious for Jen to let us know the client has arrived in the building to get this show started. I walk to the refreshment table, setting a water bottle at the top right of each packet.
Everything's perfect. I've thought of every detail, I think.
I catch Mark's stare, his eyes fixed on my chest, and glance down—my bra's lace peeks out from my wrap dress's neckline, sending a flush of heat through me. I turn toward the wall, back to everyone else, where only Mark has a slight view. I unlatch the brooch already pinned to my dress, fingers fumbling to untie and retie the wrap tighter.
I should go to the bathroom, but it's too far down the hall, and there's no time.
As I untie the dress, it falls open further, giving Mark a glimpse of my see-through slip and transparent lace bra—just a slice.
No, he didn't see anything, did he?
The brooch slips from my hand, clattering to the floor. I freeze, but Mark steps forward, his broad frame subtly shielding me, and hands it back.
He definitely saw everything. Embarrassing. I'll be embarrassed later.
My face burns.
Ugh, why am I such a clumsy idiot? I shouldn't have worn this, but I saved up for it, knowing the client loves this color.
I breathe deeply—in through the nose, out through the mouth—trying to calm down, but it only makes my chest rise and fall more noticeably. I finish pinning the brooch to secure the wrap, catching Sarah's eyes, sharp like daggers boring into me.
I shut my eyes, mentally triple-checking my list: lights, projector, packets, chairs, water.
Just as Jen steps in, saying, "They're coming up the elevator," I stand, hands clasped over my thighs, poised and ready. I look around, everyone looks ready.
The client walks in, and I force a smile, heart racing.
I got this. We shake hands and begin.