The morning in the city tasted like burnt coffee, rushed deadlines, and a generous helping of chaos. Cynthia Brooks clutched her paper cup as if it were the last life raft in a stormy sea. Her heels clicked against the cracked sidewalk as she weaved between pedestrians, dodging bicycles, stray dogs, and the occasional overzealous jogger. She was late, and by the looks of it, the city didn't care.
"Third warning," she muttered under her breath. "Third warning. Great. I'll probably get a plaque for consistent tardiness."
Finally, she reached the towering glass building of VOS Art & Media. Its reflective surface gleamed in the morning sun, making the building look like it was silently judging every pedestrian who dared approach. Cynthia swung open the revolving doors and immediately regretted not taking a moment to straighten her hair—or, at the very least, catch her breath.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of polished wood and ambition. Cynthia's heels clicked against the marble floor as she navigated through the buzz of morning meetings and ringing phones. She felt eyes on her—familiar, heavy. Alexander, of course. His gaze was steady, piercing.
Cynthia froze. Not the combo she needed first thing in the morning. "Uh… morning, Mr. Kane," she managed, hoping she sounded more professional than she felt.
He didn't reply, only raised an eyebrow, and Cynthia felt panic swirl in her stomach. She hurried past him, muttering a quiet, "Don't fall. Don't trip. Don't look like a caffeine zombie."
Her desk was a small haven of organized chaos: papers stacked precariously, pens that didn't work, and a small photo of her childhood dog, Buster, looking judgmentally cheerful. She collapsed into her chair, letting out a dramatic sigh that might have rivaled a Shakespearean actress. The computer screen blinked at her, as if silently judging her morning's performance. She ignored it. For now.
A ping from her email made her glance up. It was a notification about the upcoming showcase. Her heart skipped a beat. This was the moment she had been waiting for: a chance to show her voice, the one she had spent years hiding behind office emails and coffee orders.
Cynthia stared at the screen. One word echoed in her mind: audition.
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from her best friend, Mia.
𝚖𝚒𝚊:𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝.𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎.𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 ,𝚊𝚎𝚡𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕
Cynthia groaned. "Weird how? Creepy weird? Handsome-but-intimidating weird? Or just 'you're late-again' weird?" She typed a frantic reply but deleted it twice before finally sending
Cynthia: Don't worry. I'm a professional. Kind of.
She stared at the screen for a moment, then back at the audition email. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She felt like her life was balanced on a single thread of courage and bad coffee. Finally, she took a deep breath and typed her response: Yes.
Immediately, her stomach did a little flip. What had she just done? She looked around as if the office could somehow whisper encouragement back at her. The only response was a paper clip falling off her desk. She sighed. Not quite as glamorous as applause, but close enough.
Just then, the elevator dinged, and Alexander stepped out, this time heading toward the conference room. He gave her one of those looks—the kind that suggested he knew more than he was letting on. Cynthia felt her cheeks warm, cursed herself under her breath
As she organized her papers, she caught her reflection in the monitor. Her hair was slightly askew, a lock hanging in front of her eyes. She pushed it back with a flourish that probably looked like she was trying to swat a fly
Her day continued in a blur of emails, client calls, and awkward encounters with coworkers who apparently thought small talk was a competitive sport. Somewhere between explaining the new marketing pitch and pretending to understand Photoshop instructions, Cynthia felt a small, thrilling tingle of excitement.