The sun was just starting to rise over the skyline, casting a soft golden hue across New York's bustling streets. I pulled my coat tighter as I stepped out of my apartment and locked the door behind me.
This time, I chose the bus.
I'm not risking another ride through the rain, smelling like basement laundry detergent, and regret. Not today.
My outfit is decent: a pale blue blouse with a barely noticeable stain near the hem, a dark grey pencil skirt that I pressed three times the night before, and my thrifted navy blazer. I tied my hair into a tight bun, every strand slicked back with such discipline that it gave me the aura of someone either joining the military or bracing for battle.
In a way, I'm doing both.
The bus ride is slow, the city crawling to life like a reluctant giant. I find a window seat, slip in my earphones, and play a familiar comfort track; SZA's "Twenty Something."
I rest my head against the window, eyes closed, letting the melancholy tune settle deep into my bones. It isn't just a song; it's my life. The bittersweet confusion of being young broke and trying to keep my soul intact in a world that often demands you trade it in.
God, please... I think, not out of desperation this time, but genuine gratitude. Thank you for this chance. I'll make it count.
When my stop comes, I gather my things and step out onto the sidewalk. The morning wind is crisp, and as I turn the corner and see it, my breath catches in my throat.
Duckknight Enterprises.
The building towers over everything else like it rules the skyline. It isn't just tall; it's imposing. All glass, black steel, and perfect symmetry. People in pristine suits move in and out like they have somewhere to be, someone to impress.
I smooth my blazer, fix my posture, and jog across the street.
As soon as I cross the threshold, the world changes.
The air shifts colder, cleaner, almost too sterile. The floors gleam like mirrors, and the soft scent of designer perfume and floor polish fills my nose. Conversations are hushed but intense. Laughter is measured. Every detail of this place screams wealth, power, and control.
And me?
I feel like an ink blot on a white sheet.
A woman in a tight burgundy dress stands by the front desk, her stiletto heels clicking sharply against the marble as she turns toward me.
"You must be Ava," she says, her voice clipped but not unkind. "I'm Dana. I'll be showing you to your desk and giving you a quick tour before your supervisor arrives."
"Hi! Yes, thank you so much," I say, instantly feeling my voice come out too cheerful, too grateful.
Dana arches a brow. "Follow me."
As we walk past the high-tech elevators and sleek glass-walled conference rooms, I can't help but notice the other women.
They look like they stepped off magazine covers. Flawless makeup. Shiny, pin-straight hair. Tailored suits. Nails that are definitely done at expensive places that offer complimentary champagne.
And they notice me.
Two of them, seated by a frosted-glass office, give me a once-over that is so synchronized it feels rehearsed. Their gazes linger on my shoes, my second-hand blazer, and my draft-tight bun, and then meet each other's eyes before smirking.
One of them leans closer to the other and whispers something that makes them both giggle.
The sound slices through my ears like paper cuts.
Dana doesn't seem to notice or maybe she just doesn't care. She keeps walking until we reach a small reception desk positioned directly outside a pair of heavy, sleek black doors.
"This is your desk," she says, motioning to a glass-top station with a company-issued tablet and an intercom system. "You'll answer calls, manage the schedule, and handle any walk-ins for Mr. Duckknight."
I blink. "Mr. Duckknight, as in…"
Dana gives me a knowing look. "Yes, Mr. Duckknight. Damian Duckknight. The CEO."
My throat goes dry.
So I'm... sitting outside his office? I'm going to see him? Talk to him? Every day?
Dana continues, "You probably won't see him much unless he calls for you. And when he does," she gives me a once-over that isn't quite as mean as the other women's but not exactly warm either, "be professional. Minimal conversation. He doesn't tolerate small talk."
"Got it," I nod quickly, my heart starting to thud in my chest.
As Dana explains the call system and login credentials, I try to focus, but I can still feel the eyes on me. I can still hear the soft, cruel giggles behind my back.
'I don't belong here,' whispers a voice in my head.
But then another voice, quiet but firm, pushes back.
But I'm here anyway.
I spend the rest of the morning settling in, memorizing extension numbers, and pretending I'm not painfully aware of how cheap my blouse feels compared to the silk ones around me. No one offers help. No one smiles at me.
When I accidentally drop a file folder and bend to pick it up, one of the girls from earlier, the one with icy blonde hair and blood-red lips, passes by and mutters, "Careful. The papers might be more expensive than your outfit."
I freeze, my cheeks burning. But I don't look up. I simply hold the papers tightly in my hands.