It looked less like a luxury brand company building and more like a museum. The secretary, who resembled Malibu Barbie in a corporate guise, let me in through the security gate and immediately handed me a stack of files.
She appeared more on edge than I did, and that only egged on my uneasiness.
"You take the lift up to the fourth floor, the first office to the right. You can't miss it." She gave me a quick once-over. "Whatever you do, never, ever, go on to the seventh floor."
"What's on the seventh floor?" I pressed.
She arched a brow as if I had some nerve to question her. "It's Mr. Night's floor. You only go there when, or if, you get summoned."
"What about day-end hand-ins?"
"The head secretary on your floor makes rounds to each office before you go home. She will take it from you."
Day-end hand-ins were basically all of the work you completed that day and are supposed to hand in before you go home. The work you didn't get done got carried over to the next day for completion. If you didn't finish all your work by the end of the week, it gets subtracted from your pay.
The board director made sure to repeat the rules to me over the phone—while in class.
She could care less whether I got kicked out and had to retake the class in the middle of the night. Or that I had to pay someone from campus to take me home with the last money I had left of my savings.
Abduction cases were skyrocketing in the area, and I wasn't taking any chances walking either.
"You can go now." Without another word, she twisted around on her candy-pink heels and stalked away.
I smoothed out my silk button-down blouse and checked my black leggings for any traces of my powdery breakfast, which consisted of Portuguese rolls stuffed with Nutella. And double dang, were they good.
I knew having those on the way to work in a cab was a bad idea, but I couldn't resist.
I smoothed down my waist-length fiery red hair, wishing I had tied them up. They could become quite problematic and all over the place. I was in such a rush this morning. I didn't think of that.
I sighed and walked toward the elevator.
The foyer was lit with grand crystal chandeliers and the walls decorated with antique paintings.
I held onto the strap of my handbag, clutching the papers to my chest and digging my nails into the cheap leather to stop myself from shaking.
You can do this, Scarlett.
I barely lifted my hand when the elevator opened. I frowned, glancing around me.
Strange.
Maybe it was automatic?
Was there even such a thing?
Not making too much out of it, I stepped in and pushed the button for the fourth floor.
All four walls on the elevator's interior had mirrors, giving me an up-and-close look at what a mess I was.
My hair was frizzier than usual, and I still had flour on my butt. I quickly swatted away the powder coating on my behind and did a triple turn to make sure I was clean and decent.
I placed down my handbag by my feet and twisted my hair together, tossing them back over my shoulder in an attempt to fix it.
It did the trick. Mostly. Where my hair was parted above the crown of my head, it appeared like the broken, dry strays were reaching for the sky as if it was their salvation to moisture. Nothing I did kept them subdued. I sighed, bending down to pick up my handbag. I needed to get a decent hair mask treatment, and soon.
I barely straightened up when there was a ding sound, and the elevator door slowly pushed open, revealing an angry-looking middle-aged woman with her lips pursed in a tight line.
She had files clutched to her chest, pushing up her boobs to the point that it looked like they were about to spill out of her blouse.
It was an error I unintentionally made by staring down there, but damn, you'd think in an office setting she'd bother to dress decently.
When I raised my gaze, she was baring her teeth at me. "Once you're done staring like a bloody idiot and an inconvenience, as you are, I need you to file these. Now."
Without giving me a chance to sputter out an apology, she threw the files at me, and they scattered across the floor of the elevator.
"Get moving, girl. You're late," she spat out before spinning around and marching down the hall.
"Welcome to Night & Hathaway Inc," I muttered under my breath, crouching down to gather the files and a few loose papers before hurrying after the rude woman.
I scowled at the back of her too-tight, scalp-straining blonde bun for a moment, but it didn't last long as my surroundings got the better of my attention.
The office was a layout of powder-white Victorian decor, sophistication, and fresh air.
Large windows framed with golden filigree showcased the bustling city; a discordance of raised voices and foot-goers caught in a rush.
You could drop a pin in here, and an echo would follow within these sterile walls.
I lifted my feet, checking the soles of my heels to make sure I didn't leave a trail of dirt on the polished floors.
"Over here," Cruella shouted from across the room. I decided to dub her Cruella because it seemed fitting, other than the fact that I had no idea what her actual name was.
Trying to balance all the files without dropping them, I did my best to keep up with her pace.
There were six desks in the large office, three of them already occupied by my coworkers, typing frantically on their laptops, and one of them had a client on the phone. None of them lifted their eyes from their work. Whether it was out of fear, or disinterest, I supposed I'd find out soon enough.
"This will be your desk for the duration that you'll be working here," her voice clipped. It was as if she didn't expect me to last and I briefly wondered how many interns had quit because of Cruella.
"I assume you've received instructions on how the process works and what you're supposed to be doing?" Before I could answer, she sighed, "Don't screw this up, girl."
She twisted around on her heels and stalked away, her cleavage wobbling as if her boobs were desperate to escape the too-tight bra she was wearing.
"Someone should consider going for a proper fitting," I murmured to myself, rearranging the messy files on top of my desk. I scarcely sat down when the phone exploded into a fit of shrill cries.
Already overwhelmed by my new position, I lifted a trembling hand and reached for the phone. "Night & Hathaway Inc, how may I help you?"
The first time I answered, my voice shook, but I became a trained professional in phone answering within an hour. The damn thing rang off the hook—to such an extent that I wasn't close to done with my work by the end of the day.