Page 9 of VOGUEish

“I wish I could be there to hear you promoted to editor-in-chief,” Isabella gushed.

Amanda’s smile morphed into a scary scowl. “Do you fucking know nothing?”

Isabella took a step back. “What?”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “If you just jinxed me, I will burn your life to the ground.”

Well. Okay, then. How in the hell was she to know Amanda was superstitious? “Sorry about—“

Amanda’s sharply raised hand decapitated Isabella’s apology.

Time to change the subject. “Are you, by chance, finished with my phone?”

“Of course I’m done with your phone. I don’t have time for lengthy conversations. It’s on my desk waiting for you to collect it. Next to your afternoon to do list.” With that not-so-nice retort, Amanda swept out of the office on a cloud of perfume and disdain, sticky note still in hand.

Isabella sat back in her chair and grinned. Her new boss was tough, but Isabella would bet her collection of antique sewing machines she had a soft spot. Granted, it would be tiny, smaller than a woman’s G-spot, but it would be there and worth the hunt if Amanda became the new editor-in-chief. The boss of all who worked at Naked Runway. The one who could then promote Isabella to fashion editor.

A boss. Ever since starting this journey toward her comeback moment, Isabella had been her own supervisor. This was the first part of the journey that required her to work for another. Weird. She glanced at the clock, recalled Amanda’s mention of an afternoon to-do list, and was immediately hit with a wave of anxiety. How would she ever finish a new list when her current one was anything but done?

Flats. Would Amanda fire her if she failed to finish the lists? Of course she would.

A throat cleared behind Isabella, and she turned.

“Delivery for Amanda Goldstein,” said a blue-haired woman.

Isabella hopped up. “You’re late.”

The woman thrust a hot coffee at Isabella. “I’m so sorry. I tripped over a stray cat and spilled your order and had to wait for it to be refilled and—“

“That is no excuse.” Isabella grabbed the coffee, scurried out of her office, and hurried down the center of the cubicles. She greeted her fellow work people as she rushed between their workspaces. “Good morning. Hello. Hi.” I should have been nicer to the delivery person. She made a vow to herself not to allow the stress of the job to rob her of her good manners. At the end of the corridor, she realized she’d left her phone behind. “Could someone point me toward the office of the Editor-in-Chief?”

“Turn right at the first hallway you see and then take the second left. You can’t miss it. It’s next to the fishbowl meeting room.” This came from a brunette who didn’t bother to glance up from her task.

“Fishbowl?” Isabella stepped aside to allow the security guy—a burly man she’d seen this morning at the door—to slip beside her. He carried an empty brown box and a frown. Was that—

“All the walls are made of glass?” a blonde said.

“What?” Isabella asked.

“That’s why the meeting room is called a fishbowl.” She stood and watched the security guard.

“Oh. I see. Thanks.” Isabella also turned to watch the security guard.

All of those who’d been too busy to respond to her hellos were now standing and watching the retreating back of the security dude. And it wasn’t because he had a great butt, because he didn’t have much of one.

Then phones started dinging.

Isabella heard the word fired being spoken in hushed tones.

Someone had been canned. A chill tickled her spine. She glanced back to see where the man had gone, but he’d already disappeared around a corner. The same corner she’d come around. Please don’t let it be me.

On that thought, she left behind the mystery of who’d been fired and continued on her way to the meeting. Unfortunately, she’d either been given bad directions or she’d misremembered them, because—as it turned out—she should have turned left at the end of the hall and then taken the second left.

By the time she found the fishbowl, she was a hot flustered mess compared to the exquisitely dressed people milling around the open door as if they were waiting for someone beautiful. “Could—“

Before she could finish the sentence, they shuffled and presented her with their backs. What was that about?

She glanced down at her outfit. Hopefully, her thrift store-purchased Calvin Klein white blouse with adorable buttons in the shape of stilettos—her own addition to the blouse—black Chanel skinny pants, and leopard print flats hadn’t earned their snub. Sure, they were last season, but they were classics. Classics meant you could wear them beyond their first season.

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