I'm No Frigging Cinderella

If there’s a God up there, he definitely has a sense of humor. And apparently, I’m his favorite punchline. I’m standing in the elevator of Stone Media Tower at exactly 8:47 AM, clutching my vanilla latte like it’s a lifeline, when Murphy’s Law decides to throw its daily tantrum. The elevator lurches just a tiny hiccup that wouldn’t even register on a normal person’s radar, but I’m Harper Wells, and normal isn’t in my vocabulary. Coffee. Everywhere. And naturally, because the universe has a twisted sense of timing, I’m wearing a white blouse. Not black, not navy, not some forgiving off-white that might camouflage caffeine disasters. Pure, pristine, “look at me, I’m a walking target” white. “Fantastic,” I mutter, dabbing uselessly at my chest with a napkin that’s about as effective as a chocolate teapot. “Just fantastic.” The elevator dings cheerfully because even inanimate objects are mocking me now and opens to reveal the thirtieth floor. My floor. The marketing department’s floor. The floor where I’m about to walk into what’s sure to be another day of professional humiliation. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders, and step forward with all the confidence I can muster. Which is apparently none, because I immediately trip over my own feet. Are you shitting me right now? Papers explode from my arms like confetti at a very sad parade. My laptop bag slides off my shoulder, taking the last of my dignity with it. I hit the marble floor with all the grace of a drunk giraffe, and somewhere in the background, I swear I hear the universe cackling. “Oh, for f**k’s sake,” I groan, scrambling to collect scattered reports and what remains of my self-respect. “Language, Harper.” I freeze. That voice could freeze hell over and make the devil ask for a sweater. I look up to find Scarlett Wells, my identical twin sister, my boss, and the bane of my pathetic existence standing there in her perfect Chanel suit with an expression that could sour milk. “Sorry,” I mumble, shoving papers into a haphazard pile. “I just—” “You just what? Decided to redecorate the hallway with coffee and incompetence?” Scarlett’s smile could cut glass. “How very... you.” I want to point out that technically, the coffee incident happened in the elevator, not the hallway, but I’ve learned that correcting Scarlett is like poking a sleeping bear. A sleeping bear with a b***h degree and authority over my paycheck. “It won’t happen again,” I lie, because we both know it absolutely will happen again. Probably before lunch. “See that it doesn’t.” She steps around me like I’m a puddle she doesn’t want to get her designer shoes wet in. “Clean yourself up and meet me in Conference Room B in ten minutes. We’re presenting the Hartwell campaign to Mr. Stone.” My blood turns to ice. The Hartwell campaign. The campaign I’ve been working on for six weeks. The campaign that was my idea, my research, my late nights and weekend sacrifices. The campaign that somehow became “our” project last week and is apparently now being presented to Alexander Stone himself. “We?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Scarlett’s laugh is about as warm as a mortician’s handshake. “Oh, Harper. You didn’t think you’d actually be presenting, did you? You can barely walk across a room without causing property damage. No, you’ll be there to... support. Take notes. Try not to bleed on anything important.” She clicks away on her stilettos, leaving me sitting on the floor like a caffeinated crime scene. I’m like a walking advertisement for why natural selection should still be a thing. Maybe it was, and my parents didn’t get the memo. By the time I’ve scraped myself off the floor, changed into the spare blouse I keep in my desk drawer (because yes, this happens often enough to require backup clothing), and made it to Conference Room B, the meeting is already in session. Through the glass wall, I can see Scarlett holding court at the head of the table, my presentation slides glowing on the smart board behind her. She’s gesturing elegantly with manicured hands, explaining market demographics and target audiences with the confidence of someone who definitely didn’t spend three weeks researching millennial buying patterns. And there, sitting at the far end of the table like some kind of corporate deity, is Alexander Stone. I’ve seen him exactly four times in the two years I’ve worked here. Twice in the elevator, where he stared through me like I was made of glass. Once in the lobby, where I’m pretty sure he thought I was a lost intern. And once at last year’s Christmas party, where I spent the entire evening hiding behind a potted plant because apparently, my brain thinks that’s an appropriate response to attractive men. He’s... God, he’s beautiful. Dark hair that’s perfectly styled but looks like he runs his fingers through it when he’s thinking. Sharp jawline that could cut diamonds. And those eyes—even from here, I can see they’re the kind of blue that makes you think of summer storms and dangerous promises. Yeah, promises between the sheets that made Harper squeeze her legs together. He was a walking wet dream. He’s nodding at something Scarlett is saying, and I watch her lean forward just slightly, giving him a perfect view down her blouse. Because of course she is. Scarlett doesn’t just present marketing campaigns; she presents herself as the main attraction. I slip into the room as quietly as possible, which for me means I only knock over one chair. All heads turn toward me, and I feel my cheeks flame red hot. “Sorry,” I whisper, fighting the chair and trying to disappear into my seat at the back of the room. Stone’s gaze passes over me for exactly 1.2 seconds before returning to Scarlett. I don’t exist to him. I’m furniture. Less than furniture, actually, because at least furniture serves a purpose. “As I was saying,” Scarlett continues smoothly, clicking to the next slide, “our research shows that this demographic responds best to authenticity and emotional connection.” My research. My findings. My words coming out of her perfectly glossed lips. “Impressive work,” Stone says, and his voice is exactly what you’d expect from a man who runs a media empire. Deep, authoritative, with just a hint of something that makes my ovaries sit up and pay attention. “This kind of insight is exactly what we need to capture the Hartwell account.” Scarlett practically glows under his praise. “Thank you, Mr. Stone. I believe this campaign will exceed all expectations.” I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood. I believe this campaign will exceed all expectations because I designed it that way, you credit-stealing harpy. “The emotional angle is particularly strong,” Stone continues, studying the slides. “The narrative about authentic connections in a digital age... it’s sophisticated. Nuanced. Not what I’d typically expect from—” He stops mid-sentence, and for one terrifying moment, his eyes meet mine across the room. There’s something there… Probably just confusion about why there’s a coffee-stained peasant sitting in his meeting. Oh, then a remember I changed my shirt so what had he been looking at? “At short notice, normally this kind of insight would take months and public surveys,” he finishes “It’s all about knowing your audience,” Scarlett says, and I swear she’s purring. “Understanding what drives them, what they need, what they’re missing in their lives.” What I’m missing in my life is credit for my own damn work. Because Scarlett made it sound like it was all her hard work. The meeting continues for another twenty minutes, with Scarlett fielding questions about strategies and demographics questions I could answer in my sleep because I lived and breathed this campaign for weeks. Instead, I sit in the back like a potted plant, taking notes on my own stolen ideas. When it’s finally over, Stone stands and buttons his jacket. “Excellent presentation, Ms. Wells. I’m impressed by the depth of research and strategic thinking. This is exactly the kind of innovative approach that sets us apart from our competitors.” “Thank you, Mr. Stone. That means everything coming from you.” I think I might vomit. Or commit homicide. Possibly both. But knowing my luck, I wouldn’t get away with it. But thinking maybe twenty to life would be worth it. As everyone files out, I start gathering my things, hoping to escape before— “Harper.” Shit. Scarlett’s voice could freeze vodka. Which, if you didn’t know, freezing vodka was impossible. I turn around slowly, plastering on my most innocent smile. “Yes?” “I need those additional research notes on the demographic breakdown. The ones we discussed yesterday. We didn’t discuss anything yesterday. She’s fishing for more of my work to steal. I had already done the research, but if I had added to this presentation, the meeting would have gone on longer. I had the information handy in case I was asked any questions. But that had been before Scarlett stole my work. There was no we in her little show. “Of course,” I say, because what choice do I have? “I’ll have them to you by the end of the day.” Remember, she signs your pay. “Make sure you do.” She adjusts her blazer, smoothing invisible wrinkles. “Oh, and Harper? You might want to invest in some coordination classes. Or a helmet. For everyone’s safety.” She sweeps out of the room, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of her perfume and my own burning rage. f*****g b***h. I should’ve eaten HER in the womb. My phone buzzes with a text from Emma, my best friend and the only person who doesn’t make me feel like a walking disaster. Emma: How’s your day going? Rate it on a scale of 1 to dumpster fire. Me: Dumpster fire is generous. Try nuclear waste explosion. Emma: Scarlett again? Me: Is the sky blue? Do I have the coordination of a sedated sloth? Emma: What happened this time? I start typing out the whole sordid tale when another presence fills the doorway. I look up to find Stone himself standing there, and my fingers freeze over my phone screen. “Ms. Wells?” He steps into the room, and suddenly the space feels about ten times smaller. “I wanted to ask about the research methodology on the emotional connection metrics.” My brain short-circuits. He’s talking to me. Alexander Stone is actually talking to me and asking about my work, and I’m sitting here gaping like a fish out of water. Why is he asking me? Scarlett had made it very bloody clear in the meeting it was her baby. “I... um...” Come on, Harper. Form words. Use your college education. “What specifically did you want to know?” “The data on authentic brand relationships versus transactional customer engagement. It’s sophisticated analysis. Very thorough.” “The research shows that consumers are increasingly seeking emotional investment in brands,” I manage, my voice only slightly squeaky. “They want to feel like they’re part of a story, not just making a purchase. THe younger gens want to make sure they are protecting the environment. So any brand that shows a strong environmentally friendly outlook for the younger generations will support. It’s not about cost for them.” Stone nods slowly, studying me with those storm-blue eyes. “Exactly. That kind of insight doesn’t come from surface-level research. It requires real understanding of human psychology.” My heart is hammering so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it. “Thank you, sir. I... I’m glad you found it valuable.” “Have we met before?” he asks suddenly, tilting his head slightly. “You seem familiar.” Oh God. Oh no. This is it. This is where I spontaneously combust from mortification. “I… Scarlett is my twin sister,” I squeak. “I… I’m just not as polished as her.” Something flickers across his expression—confusion? “Really,” he says, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Well, excellent work on the campaign. Your insights are... unexpected.” And with that, he’s gone, leaving me alone in the conference room with my racing heart and the sudden, terrifying realization that Alexander Stone just complimented my work. My work not Scarlett’s. My stolen, uncredited, completely invisible work. I grab my phone and text Emma back: Me: Change of plans. Dumpster fire just got upgraded to completely surreal alternate dimension. Emma: ??? Me: I’ll explain later. Right now I need to figure out how to exist in a world where my boss just complimented me on work he doesn’t know is mine. Emma: Harper, you’re not making sense. Me: Welcome to my life, population: me and my complete confusion. I shove my phone in my bag and head back to my cubicle, trying to process what just happened. Stone noticed me. Actually spoke to me like I’m a human being with functioning brain cells instead of the office klutz who can’t walk across a room without causing minor property damage. And somehow, that’s more terrifying than being invisible. Because now I have hope. And hope, in my experience, is just disappointment wearing a fancy dress. But as I settle into my cubicle and stare at my computer screen. s**t, Scarlett was going to be pissed if she finds out.