C2

CHAPTER 2

​Cold sweat trickles down my back while my feet—trapped in these heels that now feel like an instrument of torture—pound against the Fifth Avenue pavement. I check my wristwatch for the tenth time in the last three minutes: 8:12 AM. Punctuality is the golden rule of any job, and I am already breaking it before I even begin.

​“Damn it, Camila, move!” I reprimand myself in a low voice, weaving past a group of tourists who have stopped to take photos of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

​My mind is an absolute chaotic mess. On one hand, there is this crushing financial anxiety, and on the other, the image of the woman from the subway playing on a loop behind my eyelids. I can still feel the pressure of her fingers on my waist, and that sandalwood scent seems to have clung to my own clothes. Does she always take that train? Why did she look at me like that? I shake my head as I catch myself considering the possibility of continuing to take that train just to run into her again. I don’t have time for fantasies about imposing strangers. I have to save my future.

​Finally, the imposing glass-and-steel structure of Apex Ink comes into view, towering before me. It’s a skyscraper that seems to want to scrape the Manhattan sky, gleaming under the morning sun with an intimidating arrogance. Taking a deep breath, I try to smooth down my skirt with trembling hands and climb the main steps. I take another deep breath and push through the revolving doors.

​The lobby is a monument to expensive minimalism: white marble, soaring ceilings, and a deathly silence broken only by the echo of my hurried footsteps. I approach the reception desk, where a blonde woman with a hairstyle so tight it looks like it’s stretching the skin on her face peers at me over her designer glasses.

​“I’m here to see Susana... Susana Murphy,” I say, trying to keep my voice from sounding as frantic as I feel. “I’m Camila Contreras, the new... the new employee.”

​The woman scans me with insulting slowness; her eyes linger on a small scuff on the toe of my shoes and then on a strand of hair that escaped my ponytail during my sprint.

​“You’re late, dear,” she tells me, her voice dripping with condescension. “Susana is on the 49th floor. The elevator on the right.”

​She opens a drawer with mechanical movements and pulls out a rigid plastic badge attached to a black lanyard. She slides it across the counter toward me as if it were contaminated.

​“Put it on. I don’t want security mistaking you for a food delivery person.”

​I grab the badge with clumsy hands. In stark, black lettering against the white background, it reads: CAMILA CONTRERAS - RECEPTION (PROVISIONAL). I slip it over my head, feeling the weight of the cold plastic against my chest.

​“And I suggest you use the service entrance next time if you’re going to arrive in this state.”

​I feel the blood rush to my cheeks; humiliation burns in my throat, but I grit my teeth and don’t talk back. I can’t afford to lose my temper on day one. I walk toward the elevator, feeling her gaze pinned to my back like a needle. I feel a wave of relief as I step inside and finally manage to escape her stare.

​The elevator shoots up so fast my ears pop. The digital numbers on the screen flash rapidly: 20, 30, 40... As I ride up, I try to compose myself in the mirrored walls of the cabin. I’m pale, my honey-colored eyes look huge from the scare, and my lips are still trembling a little. I touch up my lipstick with clumsy fingers and try to convince myself that everything will be fine.

​When the doors slide open on the 49th floor, I lose my breath. This isn’t a normal office; it’s a vast, modern open space decorated with abstract artwork and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a dizzying view of Central Park. Dozens of people are moving back and forth with tablets and folders, but no one looks at me. It’s as if I were invisible—a ghost in the middle of a perfect machine.

​I walk down the central hallway, looking for any sign of Susana. At the end of the hall, I notice a set of double glass doors left ajar. I peek in cautiously, expecting to find an executive desk, but what I see leaves me paralyzed: there is a woman crawling across the gray carpeted floor.

​She must be in her early thirties. She is wearing a navy pencil skirt that stretches dangerously tight across her backside as she moves on all fours, and a white silk blouse with the sleeves rolled up. Her brown hair is a mess, and she seems to be searching for something frantically beneath a leather sofa.

​“Hello?” I whisper, unsure whether I should step in or run away.

​The woman jumps, lightly bumping her head against the base of the furniture. She spins around toward me and lets out a sigh of relief when she sees me. She gets up quickly, brushing off her knees with her hands. She is pretty, with a wide smile and an energy that completely contrasts with the coldness of the rest of the floor.

​“Oh, thank God!” she exclaims, walking over to me. “For a second, I thought you were Amy, and she would have killed me if she saw me like this. I’m Susana, you must be Camila, right?”

​“Yes, ma’am... Susana. I’m sorry I’m late, I had car trouble and—”

​“Don’t worry about that right now,” she interrupts, looking back at the floor anxiously. “Help me, please. I dropped my engagement ring and I can’t find it. If I don’t have it on when Amy calls me, she’ll realize that... never mind.” She waves her hand dismissively. “She’ll just give me a one-hour lecture on professionalism, values, and how I should take care of my belongings.”