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My lunch break is the only time I’m ever away from the fast-paced insanity of my job. It wasn’t always this crazy. A couple of months ago, I was an employee with normal hours, and I could get in a good night’s sleep most days. Since I got promoted to marketing executive, it feels like I haven’t had a moment’s peace.
Everyone wants a promotion without realizing they’re being led a step closer to deteriorating mental health.
“I’ve gotta go, Mr. Rivera,” I say to the old man upon hanging up the call. “You’ve got the rest of the tacos packed up, right?”
I feel bad that the rest of the staff couldn’t go on their own lunch breaks due to the big shoot currently happening at work, so I promised to bring some food back.
“Of course I do,” he says, reaching for a bag filled with tacos and handing them to me. “Enjoy the rest of your day,cariño.”
“You and I both know I won’t. See you tomorrow. And don’t you dare run out of tacos until I get here,” I say, offering him a smile and a wave.
“I would never, Lucia,” he says solemnly, waving as I leave.
I practically run across the street to my office five minutes from Mr. Rivera’s truck. The towering glass building is all sharp edges and polished surfaces, just like the fashion company it houses. I’ve built my career here and made a name for myself all in a short time. No one has ever climbed the ladder as fast as I did. Which is why on most days, all I can think about is how much it’s going to hurt if I ever fall.
I’m not going to let that happen, though.
I hurry inside, the familiar buzz of the lobby washing over me as I make my way to the elevator. An emergency is the last thing I need today, especially with the photoshoot happening. When the elevator doors open, I step out into the chaos of the office. People are rushing around, phones are ringing.
The fashion industry has to be the most fast-paced, high-stakes environment I’ve ever experienced. I love it. Usually, a thrill passes through me as soon as I step into the eye of the storm. Right now, though, all I can think about is the shoot happening on the terrace.
Someone tries to wave me over but I ignore him in favor of getting to the roof. I head over to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time before bursting out onto the rooftop, and immediately, I can tell something’s wrong. The setup is beautiful—lush plants, elegant furniture, the perfect backdrop for a cover shoot—but the energy is all wrong. The model, a rising star with a classic, sophisticated beauty, is standing off to the side, arms crossed and looking uncomfortable. And in the middle of it all is Jonathan, the photographer, barking orders at everyone in that slimy tone of his.
Simone approaches as soon as she spots me.
“What’s going on?” I ask her in a low tone.
She makes a noise of frustration before she informs me what has happened in the thirty minutes I’ve been away. “Apparently, Jonathan decided that the outfit you selected for the model wasn’t suitable for the aesthetics of the shoot.”
My jaw tightens and tension flows through me.
“He did what?” I grit out.
“I’ve been trying to explain to him that he has no right to make that call but he won’t listen to me.”
“Oh, he’ll listen to me,” I state, my gaze narrowing onto the short, stocky man in a pale impression of a Parisian outfit.
It screams “trying too hard to be a fashion icon but landing in the discount bin instead.” He’s lucky he has talent when it comes to photography, but his personality could use loads of work. Every time I’ve had the misfortune of working with him in the past two years, we’ve butted heads. It’s pretty clear he doesn’t respect me or my ability to do my work. In his opinion, I’m too young. He completely disregards the fact that I wouldn’t have gotten to this position if I was incapable of doing my fucking job.
“Ah, Lucia. I see you finally decided to rejoin us. Where’d you slink off to?” he asks when I walk over to him.
“Jonathan,” I begin, trying my hardest to keep my tone even, “what’s going on?”
I ignore his comment about me leaving. Maybe it wasn’t the most ideal move, but my lunch breaks are sacred. I never let anything disturb them. If he has a problem with that, then too bad.
“I made a few adjustments. The model’s outfit needs some enhancement,” he says on a shrug.
My eyes meet those of one of the assistants milling about. “Show me the outfit,” I request.
They do so immediately, lifting a new tulle pink dress with a plunging neckline and a hem that’s way too short for what we’re going for. It’s far too revealing, especially considering the fact that the model, Elara, is known for having a clean image. No wonder she looks uncomfortable.
I take a deep breath. “That’s not what we discussed, Jonathan. The outfit was chosen specifically for this shoot to align with the magazine’s image.”
He shrugs, clearly unfazed. “I just thought it could use a little more edge. You know, something that pops.”
“This isn’t about what you think ‘pops,’” I say, my voice sharp now. “It’s about the vision we agreed on, the image we want to project.”
He rolls his dark eyes, clearly not taking me seriously. “Oh, come on, Lucia. You’re overreacting. It’s just a dress.”
