40
The office was buzzing with that particular edge that came with a major launch approaching—emails flying, teams double-checking fittings and studio bookings, and the design floor humming with urgency.
Amanda moved through it all like calm in the storm, coffee in one hand, her tablet tucked under her arm, and a black folder pressed to her chest containing the final timeline for the spring campaign shoot.
It had taken weeks of late nights, scheduling chaos, vendor reschedules, location scouting, and more than one makeup artist meltdown, but it was done. Perfectly layered, polished, and timed to the minute.
Amanda had triple-checked everything that morning before printing it and slipping it into a branded black presentation folder.
She paused just outside Ericka's office, took a breath, then knocked twice.
"Come in."
Ericka's voice, sharp and focused, filtered through the door like usual. Amanda pushed it open and stepped inside.
Ericka sat at her desk in a navy blazer, hair swept back, scrolling through something on her monitor. She barely glanced up as Amanda entered, but Amanda could feel the shift in the air anyway. That small flicker of awareness Ericka always had when she walked into the room.
"I've got it," Amanda said with a soft smile, placing the folder down on Ericka's desk.
Ericka arched an eyebrow. "The timeline?"
"Complete and flawless," Amanda confirmed, stepping back and folding her hands in front of her. "I coordinated directly with the stylists and set team this morning. All models are confirmed. Locations locked. Backup plans in place, just in case New York decides to throw a thunderstorm at us again."
Ericka closed her laptop and opened the folder, scanning through the neatly printed schedule. As her eyes moved down the page, her features stayed unreadable—stoic as ever. Amanda didn't let it shake her.
But then, Ericka's fingers paused on one of the pages. "You gave the crew a thirty-minute buffer before the final shoot."
"They'll need it. Changing lighting between studio setups takes longer than people think, and if we don't build that in, we'll lose time scrambling." Amanda shrugged lightly. "I'd rather be early than rushing."
Ericka looked up at her, something quiet behind her gaze. "Good call."
Amanda's heart did a tiny flip. That was Ericka's version of that was smart as hell.
"And," Ericka added, tapping the folder, "this is better than anything our production team put together last year."
Amanda smiled. "I'll try not to let that go to my head."
"Too late."
Ericka leaned back in her chair, watching her for a moment longer. "You've really stepped into this."
Amanda tilted her head. "You mean the shoot?"
"I mean everything."
The compliment landed somewhere between Amanda's chest and her throat. She didn't know what to say for a second, so she just nodded, that quiet smile still tugging at the corners of her lips.
"I've got your back," she said gently. "You trusted me with this, and I wasn't going to drop the ball."
"You didn't," Ericka said. "Not even close."
They looked at each other for a beat too long—long enough that Amanda had to glance toward the door before anyone else might appear and read too much into the space between them.
"I'll be at my desk if you need anything," she said.
Ericka didn't reply right away. She just nodded once, her fingers still resting on the folder like she wasn't quite ready to let it go.
_________________________________
The soundstage buzzed with a pulse of energy Amanda had come to love—fast footsteps across polished concrete, the occasional snap of a camera flash, stylists calling for adjustments, assistants ducking around racks of designer pieces, and lighting techs barking countdowns from ladders overhead.
The shoot was officially underway.
Amanda stood just off set, clipboard in hand, headset snug over one ear, a walkie clipped to her belt. Her outfit was black-on-black, practical but fitted, sleek enough to say I run this, with just enough edge to keep people moving.
She had arrived before everyone else that morning, walking through the space with a quiet sense of purpose, checking off every last detail from the schedule she had built by hand.
Water stations—stocked. Backup wardrobe—hung and pressed.
Timelines—posted. Catering—on track. Weather—holding.
Hair and makeup—already working their magic.
"Five minutes to first shot," the photographer called.
Amanda didn't flinch. "Model One is ready," she replied smoothly into her headset, eyes scanning the room. "Send her to Wardrobe B in two."
She walked with calm authority, weaving through chaos like she was made of gravity, nodding as the crew scrambled around her. No matter how high the energy surged, Amanda stayed centered.
This was her production now.
From the edge of the set, Ericka watched. She hadn't interfered once—hadn't even asked a question. She stood in quiet observation, dressed in tailored black and her signature heels, arms crossed as her eyes followed Amanda's every move.
Amanda felt the gaze, but didn't let it slow her.
"Make sure the lighting gels match the test sheet," she told one of the assistants. "We're shooting in thirty seconds."
She turned to check the monitor just as the music kicked in and the first model stepped into place. The camera clicked to life, flashes strobed against the backdrop, and the room instantly shifted into flow.
Amanda exhaled.
And smiled.
The first hour moved like clockwork. Three wardrobe changes, two background resets, and one minor tech delay that Amanda resolved before Ericka could even look up from her notes.
At one point, Ericka crossed the room to stand beside her.
"You really planned this down to the breath," she said, just loud enough for Amanda to hear over the music.
Amanda shrugged lightly. "You told me not to let it fall apart."
"I said run it," Ericka corrected. "You chose to master it."
Amanda glanced at her, then smiled. "You sound surprised."
"I'm not," Ericka replied. "Just impressed."
Before Amanda could respond, her headset crackled.
"Catering's asking about early lunch for the stylists."
Amanda tapped her mic. "Push it fifteen. We're ahead of schedule."
She turned back to Ericka. "Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? A break where no one breathes in your direction?"
Ericka smirked. "Watching you work is surprisingly relaxing."
Amanda laughed under her breath, then gave a small nod and turned back toward the set.
Another shot. Another outfit. Another perfectly timed cue.
As the shoot rolled into the afternoon, Amanda didn't stop. She moved with steady rhythm, delegating where needed, solving problems before they grew legs, and keeping the whole thing running like it was built from her own heartbeat.
Because in a way, it was.
And when the last flash of the final look clicked, and the photographer called it—"That's a wrap!"—the crew broke into cheers. Stylists clapped. Models collapsed into chairs with champagne and sneakers. The design team high-fived and buzzed with pride.
Amanda stood in the middle of it, clipboard tucked under her arm, chest rising with slow, satisfied breaths.
Ericka stepped beside her again.
"You just pulled off our biggest seasonal shoot without a single misstep."
Amanda looked over at her, exhausted but glowing. "I told you I had your back."
Ericka didn't smile. She didn't have to.
Instead, she leaned in just slightly and said, "Let's go home."
And Amanda?
She followed.
Because in every sense of the word—
She'd earned it.