Page 1 of A Simple Reminder

ONE

SOPHIE

The strap of my bag cuts into my shoulder as I juggle an oversized tote full of blueprints and design magazines. My phone is wedged between my ear and shoulder, and the heat of New York’s midday sun slowly creeps into my collar. Clearly, I’ve mastered the art of looking like a disheveled intern instead of the actual professional I supposedly am.

“Did you check the email I sent?” Leora’s voice hums through the phone, bright and chipper as always.

“Yeah, I did,” I reply, nudging my bag, which keeps sliding down, higher up on my shoulder. “I’m thinking of keeping the hotel’s vibe in line with the rest of the Hôtel Ayoub d’Or chain, but with a modern, New York twist.” I straighten my posture, the steady cadence of my words betraying the nerves simmering beneath the surface.

“That sounds perfect!” Leora practically sings. ”Oh, Soph, I know you’re going to do amazing.”

I wish I shared her enthusiasm. The nerves have been fluttering in my chest all morning, delicate wings on the brink of breaking apart. This is my first freelancing project, my first major interior design gig on my own, and if I mess up, I’m in serious trouble. My chest tightens as I picture stepping into the hotel for the first time, meeting the staff, presenting my ideas, and standing in front of the person overseeing the site—someone who could make or break my career.

This is it. The chance I’ve wanted for years. The kind of opportunity that keeps me moving from one goal to the next without stopping to catch my breath. I love the rush of achieving something, of crossing off my to-do list, but the satisfaction rarely stays. There’s always another goal, another milestone pulling me forward. And when I do reach a goal, I can’t celebrate it because, in my mind, I was obligated to achieve it. It’s nothing extraordinary. Anyone can do what I do if they set their mind to it—at least, that’s what I tell myself. I’m not special. I’m just someone checking off tasks, one after the other, like items on a grocery list. Maybe that’s why it never feels like enough. Perhaps that’s why I keep chasing the next thing, hoping it will feel different one day.

“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile as though she can hear it. “I’m excited. Nervous, but excited.”

“It’s a good sign to be nervous. You’ve been an incredible interior designer for years. This is just your first big project on your own. It’s big and I’m so proud of you.” Her voice softens like she can sense my unease. “You’ve got this.”

The flutter of nerves in my chest threatens to turn into full-blown panic, but I steady my breath. “I hope so.”

“You’ve always done great, Sophie. I know you’re going to blow them away.”

Her words are warm and encouraging, but the truth is, Leora's life feels miles away from mine now. While I’ve been working to prove myself, she’s been building the picture-perfect family. It’s been two years since she met Lucas on that unforgettable girls’ trip to France. What started as a fake marriage—born out of necessity—soon turned into real love, and now they’re happily married with a baby and another on the way.

I’m happy for her—truly—but I miss her. The days feel quieter, like your favorite playlist missing its best songs. Sure, we catch up twice or thrice a year, but it’s different. However, Adeline, my roommate and the third piece of our trio, keeps me grounded. The Buttercup to my Blossom, she’s the steady beat to the chaos of life while Bubbles thrives halfway across the world.

Leora interrupts my thoughts, “By the way, have you met the guy Lucas sent over yet?” Her tone shifts slightly, cautious.

“No, not yet. I’m on my way now,” I say, glancing up to flag a cab. “Have I met him before?”

There’s a brief pause before she hurries to answer. “I’m not sure. Text me after, okay?”

“Sure. Love you.”

“Love you too! Tell Addie I said hi.”

I hang up, toss my phone into my Saint Laurent tote, and finally manage to hail a cab. Sliding into the seat, I take a deep breath and press my fingertips against my temples, trying to steady myself.

What if they don’t like my ideas? Or worse, what if they don’t like me? The thought sends a prickling heat crawling up my neck, but I force it down.You’ve done well so far. They’ll like your ideas.

This is what I wanted—a chance to work for myself, to take risks, and to build something on my own. After almost ten years of working under someone else, I quit my job earlier this year to freelance. It felt empowering at the time, like I was finally taking control of my life. But now, with this project looming, the reality feels a lot less glamorous, and the pressure is unrelenting.

I just turned thirty, two and a half months ago—twenty-second of June, to be exact—and I made a promise to myself: this decade would be different. No more waiting for someone else to give me permission. I want to be in control. I want to be in charge of my own destiny. And I want to succeed—not just for me, but for the person I know I’m capable of becoming.

I glance out the window as the cab speeds toward the hotel. Today’s not just about the project; it’s about proving to myself I’ve made the right choice.

The new hotelsits right on Central Park South, pushing the boundaries of luxury and upscale living. With Central Park sprawling behind me and The Ritz standing proudly to my left, it’s a view commanding respect. Yet, all I’m feeling is the start of regret and fear.

Ahead, a team of workers adjusts the gleaming glass panels on the revolving door, their movements precise and methodical. One man steps back, inspecting his work before nodding to another. The door isn’t quite finished, much like the hotel itself—a work in progress. It mirrors how I feel: polished on the surface but with so much still incomplete beneath.

Why did I say yes to this?I’ve never tackled a project this massive before—let alone by myself. The biggest design job I’ve ever taken on was a quaint boutique hotel with a cozy, rustic charm. It was nothing like this—nothing close to this. What was I thinking?

My hands grow clammy, the nervous energy building as I grapple with the enormity of this project.

Dammit. I can’t have my hands getting sweaty just before meeting the person in charge of the hotel. I swipe them discreetly against my black slacks to steady my breath.

“You must be Miss Anderson,” a deep voice interrupts my thoughts.

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