CHAPTER 2
865 Words
ABIGAIL MENDEZ
It was a four-hour drive from Syracuse to New York City. I glanced at my wristwatch—11:00 a.m. The interview was scheduled for 1:00 p.m. That gave me just two hours to prepare.
I picked up my phone and dialed the detective to let him know I had arrived in New York and was now at Port Authority Bus Terminal.
A few minutes later, I spotted his car pulling up in front of me.
“Hi,” he said, lowering the window.
“Welcome back to New York City.” He unlocked the door, and I got in, smiling.
“Thanks,” I replied quietly.
He drove us to a nearby café where we could talk more discreetly. We sat in a corner, away from the noise, nursing warm drinks in cold hands.
“It was a smart move, deciding to take this job,” he said, sipping his Americano.
“I didn’t even think too hard about it,” I admitted. “Before I knew it, I had already applied.”
He chuckled at that.
“I’ve told you before—if you want to avenge your mother’s death, getting close to Aya Adams is your best bet. That family hides too many secrets.”
“I know,” I said, voice steady despite the storm in my chest. “You know how desperate I am. It’s been sixteen years, and I still haven’t moved on. The trauma of losing her… it even led to my dad’s death. I have to do this. And I have to do it right.”
He nodded solemnly. “The Adams aren’t the kind to trust outsiders. So… good luck.”
“Gaining Aya’s trust will be a piece of cake,” I said with a smirk. “Don’t worry.”
We chatted for a little while longer. By 12:30, he was glancing at his watch.
“Time to go,” he said.
He offered to drive me to the company, and I accepted. Fifteen minutes later, we arrived.
I stepped out of the car, watching as he drove away. Clutching my bag tightly, I turned to face the towering glass structure before me….Maison Laurent.
My breath caught.
I had seen this building before but standing in front of it like this if felt like I had never truly been here before.
I drew in a deep breath and began counting my steps as I walked inside.
---
The moment I crossed the threshold, it was like stepping into another world. The air itself felt different—cooler, cleaner… richer.
It wasn’t just an office.
It was a kingdom.
A world sculpted from glass, steel, and unapologetic artistry.
The scent of expensive leather mingled with fresh jasmine and something else something elusive and luxurious. The kind of scent that whispered: You don’t belong here... At all
My heels clicked softly against the marble floors, each step drowned out by the quiet hum of a place too refined for noise. Designers murmured in hushed tones. Assistants rushed by, arms full of fabric. Models floated through like living mannequins, wrapped in couture that looked like it belonged in a museum.
Every corner radiated elegance. Precision. Power.
I turned my head slightly, catching sight of mannequins dressed in breathtaking pieces delicate yet bold, soft yet commanding. The kind of fashion that used to make my heart race. The kind that once inspired me to dream.
For a moment, something stirred inside me.
A flicker.
A twitch of my fingers.
The ghost of old ambitions, long buried but never fully dead.
But I pushed it down.
I wasn’t here to admire.
I was here to fight.
To prove I still had a place in this world, even if life had dragged me away from it.
I clutched my bag tighter.
Focus, Abigail Mendez. You have an interview to ace.
“Miss?”
A voice cut through the silence, bringing me back to the present.
I turned to see a sharply dressed woman approaching. Her Maison Laurent ID badge glinted under the lights.
“You must be Abigail mendez. The interview floor is this way,” she said with practiced politeness.
I nodded, swallowing hard as I followed her deeper into the building.
---
The tension in my shoulders only grew tighter as I stepped onto the interview floor.
The other candidates were already seated, and the moment I entered, I felt like an imposter.
One woman sat with perfect posture, her designer blazer hugging her figure like a second skin. Another flipped through a glossy portfolio, her manicured nails tapping rhythmically against the page as though she had done this a thousand times before.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflective glass wall.
My resume folder was plain, creased at the edges, no embossed initials or leather trim.
My stomach twisted.
They were polished. Poised.
I was patched together with leftover dreams and borrowed confidence.
Then I remembered why I was here.
For my mother
Her leftover dreams coupled with mine
The desire to set things right.
I braced myself up and walked confidently and took the seat at the front…I'm not listening to no inner demons.
- Writer
