EVERYONE'S INTERESTED
798 Words
All week, all Myra heard was talk of the party.
She ignored it as best she could. The dress Cherry had given her remained untouched, still inside its box beneath her closet. Sabrina, sharp-tongued as always, had urged her to attend. Even her father, Pat—reserved and instinctively dismissive of anything that hinted at unnecessary drama—had tried, in his own way, to persuade her.
She had given them all the same answer.
“I’ll think about it.”
At work, the pressure followed her. The morning’s tasks felt heavier than usual, each assignment tinged with the weight of the upcoming interview. She had the faintest sense it was all orchestrated, a test she hadn’t signed up for.
Needing distance, she left her desk under the excuse of getting coffee, but turned instead toward the powder room.
It was her private refuge: small, rarely used, carrying the stale stillness of neglect. Cold tiles stretched beneath her shoes. The sink remained dry except for faint chalky marks left by old water stains. The mirror looked untouched for weeks, and the sharp trace of cleaning chemicals lingered faintly in the air.
The place, like much of the studio, needed work.
Money, lately, seemed too scarce for repairs.
Everything felt tight.
“There you are.”
The voice broke through her thoughts.
At the doorway stood Sarah, a few drops of water slipping from her fingers onto the floor. Myra took in the sight of her automatically—the narrower shoulders, the sharper lines of her face. She had grown noticeably thinner since the day she first joined the studio two years earlier through the editorial desk.
Ambitious. Observant. Opportunistic.
At first, Myra had mistaken that attentiveness for diligence.
Until Reese.
The scandal had passed months ago, but its shape remained clear: Reese gone from the studio, her position lost after whispers that had somehow become enough. Nothing had ever been proven openly, yet Myra had never believed Sarah stood entirely apart from it.
Sarah’s mouth curved—not quite friendly, not quite cold. The sort of expression that carried certainty without explanation.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her brown eyes moving carefully around the room.
“Needed a break.”
Sarah stepped inside, heels soft on the clearer parts of the floor. Her gaze traced every patch of dust. Shoulders narrow, careful not to brush the counter with her chiffon sleeve.
“We can go somewhere else.”
“No,” Myra said. “I like the privacy here.”
Sarah extended a cup of coffee.
“Thought you might need this. Schmidt’s asking for you.”
The name startled her enough that she accepted the cup carefully, pinching it between two fingers, as if its warmth was not the only thing she was wary of. Her gaze stayed on the coffee for a second before lifting.
“Schmidt? Now?”
“She asked nicely,” Sarah said. “I brought coffee so you wouldn’t arrive empty-handed.”
“Thanks... I guess.”
“Everyone’s talking about the interview. Too much?”
Myra took a cautious sip, eyes flicking briefly toward the mirror.
“Feels like the whole studio is watching.”
“Must be something,” Sarah said lightly, though her stare lingered a second too long. “Carrying that much attention.”
“Not the kind I enjoy.”
“At least you’re prepared.”
A faint pause.
“Mostly.”
“Not really,” Myra admitted. “Jane’s handling most of the questions.”
Sarah nodded slowly.
“That’s thoughtful. We haven’t had anything major in a long while. Congratulations, by the way. It matters for the studio.”
“Thank you.”
Then Sarah’s tone softened.
“I can help too. If that’s alright.”
Help.
The word landed badly.
Myra’s eyes dropped briefly to the cup again before returning to Sarah’s face.
She’s never just helpful. Why now?
Every earlier conversation returned at once—carefully placed words, measured pauses, smiles too controlled to trust.
“I’ll ask Jane first.”
For the briefest moment, Sarah’s smile faltered.
Then it returned.
“Alright.”
Myra left before the silence thickened.
She crossed the corridor toward the last office at the far end, where the wooden door bore scratches deep enough to expose old layers of paint beneath.
Inside, stale paper and dust greeted her immediately.
A desk dominated the room, broad but nearly bare except for a stained cup and a computer old enough to hum in protest before fully waking. Behind it sat Schmidt, fingers spread over cracked leather armrests, her charcoal pantsuit severe enough to sharpen the decay around her.
She looked up.
“Have you contacted him?”
Myra hadn't prepared for the question at all.
- Writer
