Page 13 of Vows in Sin
Work.
Still, the feel of his hand spanking me, the heat coming off him.
And that kiss.
It wrecked me.
It takes every ounce of my boss babe self-control to forget about last night.
And focus on the now.
This morning’s meeting is crucial for my career, an exciting opportunity to shine, and a chance to get my name and contact info out to the Magda Nowak crowd. They’re a lively group of the hottest up-and-coming city dwellers in the advertising scene.
After today, I’ll be the queen of Manhattan Marketing! I can feel it!
I might need an LLC. Copyright an official title.Queen of Manhattan.Make it official. Make it mine.
I hop into the shower, exfoliate, and envision marketing gear: no cheesy hats, water bottles, or t-shirts; instead, yoga mats, nail polish bottles, and makeup cases featuring my face.
I apply a conditioning mask, and while I let the coconut treatment work its magic, I envision my logo. I could possibly switch around the words. I picture “Manhattan Marketing Queen” brightly displayed across billboards.
Fresh out of the shower, I focus on the time-consuming task of taming my curly hair. I fight frizz with leave-in conditioner, curl cream, and copious amounts of gel, then dry it with a diffuser attachment. Perfectly bouncy coils spring from my scalp.
My hot pink coffin-shaped gel nails, featuring a white line and diamond on the tip, are only one week old, timed perfectly forthis meeting. I prefer them a bit longer, but not so much that the nail bed shows above the cuticle.
My black power suit, with its hot pink lining and piping, was drycleaned last week and freshly steamed yesterday morning. It’s hanging from the hook on the front of my closet door, airing out and gathering positive energy.
A little type A, you say? Only with my work, my appearance, and my apartment. I have a severe case of ADD, am scatterbrained at times, yet have the unique ability to deep dive into my interests, using an otherworldly amount of focus to achieve my goals.
Socially, I’m a go-with-the-flow girl, like when Cleopatra recently asked me to accompany her to Italy. I jumped at the chance, rearranging my entire schedule for the next two weeks without a hint of stress.
And I’m so glad I went.
Her stepbrother, Blaze Bachman, was our host for the trip. He provided me with a sun-drenched guest house featuring cream-colored walls, which served as the perfect workspace. After spending days photographing throughout Italy, I returned to the Bachman Estate, with its deep teal lake and snowcapped mountains as my backdrop I created a magnificent campaign for my client.
I also returned with a slight obsession over Dame Bachman, but this morning we’ll leave that in its neat little ‘issues’ box.
Right now, my focus is on PalmVolt.
A brand new caffeinated coconut water. The head of the parent drink company of PalmVolt, is one of those women I look up to, the kind of kickass boss lady I’d like to be at her age.Even her name is commanding, Magda. It could be short for magnanimous.
Mags and I had a one-on-one meeting where she shared her vision for the campaign. I usually get a printout of what the company expects, but Magda insisted she works better without those constraints and can speak freely off the top of her head. It’s not how I would do things, since I prefer having a hard copy of every detail, but she’s a powerhouse, and I was there to learn. I sat, listening intently and taking notes. I didn’t want to miss a thing.
As I pack my glossy prints into my black cloth over-the-shoulder portfolio for safekeeping, I murmur my mantra to myself. “My images are amazing. They are going to love my work. I’m unstoppable. Everyone loves me.” I slap myself a high-five, like the total dork that I am, yet I hide from everyone. Smiling at my reflection in the mirror, I shout, “Show them what you’ve got, Seraphina!”
I twerk a bit— enough to get the blood flowing. Not enough to wrinkle the suit.
A ride in the private town car the agency sent for me, and I’m sailing up to the ninth floor on a spotless glass elevator, my heavy portfolio bag over my shoulder, loaded with photo boards.
I stare out the glass wall of the elevator with awe. “Just like Charlie Bucket.”
11thfloor. Ding. Door opens.
A cheerful receptionist greets me, guiding me down a long hall to a conference room in the back. I enter a room filled with the curious faces of important people surrounding a gleaming glass-topped conference table. There’s a wall of windows stretching behind them, showcasing the Manhattan skyline.
Magda sits at the head of the table, a line of her soldiers seated to her right and left. Without standing, she introduces me to the room.
“Thank you, Magda. If you’ll all bear with me for a second, I’ll get these set up, and then we can start. I can’t wait to get your feedback.” With a touch of flair, I pull the stack of photo boards from my massive fabric carrier, placing each one lovingly on the tall black easels that were set up for me earlier.
