Chapter 4
Piper
I lean in closer to the mirror and swipe one final coat of mascara onto my lashes, holding my breath like it’ll help keep my hand steady. No smudging. No clumps. Just clean, defined lashes to match the rest of my carefully constructed facade.
The high ponytail I’m sporting keeps my hair away from my face, making me look less timid.
My makeup is polished without overdoing it.
The navy tailored trousers are high waisted, and my nude-colored silk blouse is tucked into the waistband.
Matching pumps finish the look, and I don’t look half bad, if I do say so myself.
I’ve already triple-checked the contents of my tote, but just for the hell of it, I go through it again. My résumé folder, list of questions, water bottle, emergency breath mints… yep, it looks like it’s all here.
Then I grab my phone and open the company website one more time, skimming through the About Us page like I haven’t already memorized every damn detail. Founded in twenty-eleven. Political communications. Bipartisan narrative strategy. Emphasis on youth voter outreach.
While it’s not my dream firm, it’s solid, and more importantly, it’s within reach thanks to the alumni I reached out to the day after my birthday. Prestigious enough to impress future employers, small enough that I might actually get to do more than fetch coffee if I land the internship.
A knot tightens in my stomach, sharp and familiar. God, I hate this part. The pretending. The smiling. The desperate edge I always try to hide beneath layers of competence and control.
I grab my bag off the table and sling it over my shoulder, keys already in hand. I’m halfway out the door when I spot something sitting on the doormat; a black envelope, plain and unmarked, resting like it bel ongs there.
Frowning, I crouch, and pick it up—but I don’t open it. I don’t have time. So I just slip it into my bag, and lock up behind me. The interview waits. As soon as I reach the curb, the rideshare pulls up, the driver’s window already down.
“Piper H.?” he asks, glancing at his app.
Clutching my phone, I double-check that his picture on the confirmation matches the man in the car. One can never be too careful.
“That’s me,” I confirm, tugging the door open and sliding into the backseat.
The interior smells like lemon wipes and too much air freshener, but I’m too keyed up to care. I smooth the front of my blouse, legs crossed at the ankles, tote bag tucked neatly by my feet.
I pull out my phone, skimming the company’s website one last time.
I already know everything there is to find, just as I’ve memorized every name on their leadership team and every project they’ve touched in the last five years.
Still, I scroll like I might’ve missed something.
Like one more pass will settle my nerves.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text.
Lee: You’re gonna crush it. They’d be idiots not to snatch you up. Text me the second you’re out.
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. I type back a quick promise to let her know, and slide the phone into my bag, fingers tightening briefly around the handles.
When we pull up to the firm’s building, I exhale slowly. Clean glass facade, neat lettering on brushed steel. No frills. Just quiet, self-important elegance.
“Thanks,” I tell the driver as I slide out, heels clicking confidently against the sidewalk. I straighten my shoulders, smooth my ponytail, and walk through the glass doors like I belong.
The lobby is modern but impersonal—white walls, polished floors, a receptionist desk built like an altar. A young woman looks up at my approach, her expression unreadable behind a pair of tortoiseshell glasses.
“Hi,” I say with a polite smile. “I’m Piper Harrington. I have an interview scheduled with Lauren Chase.”
She taps her keyboard, eyes flicking over her screen.
“Harrington…” She frowns slightly. “Right. Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”
Her tone is clipped. Not rude, exactly—but not welcoming either. And I don’t miss the way her gaze slides down, cataloguing my outfit, my shoes, my confidence like she’s trying to slot me into a box.
I nod, but something twists in my stomach.
Still, I head to the waiting area and sit down. I’m prepared. I’m a profes sional. I’m ready.
As the minutes tick by, I wish I could take my phone out and text Lena. It might sound paranoid, but something isn’t right. Something feels off.
No one’s said anything overtly rude. But the smiles are too tight. The receptionist hasn’t looked at me once since telling me to wait. And now it’s been seventeen minutes past the scheduled time of my interview.
When the door finally opens, a woman in a sharp blazer and an expression to match steps out. She doesn’t offer her name. Doesn’t even greet me.
“Piper?”
I stand, smoothing the front of my blouse. “Yes. I’m Piper Harrington. Nice to meet you.” God, I sound like a rambling idiot.
She barely nods. “Follow me.”
Despite wanting to ask for her name, or hell, for her to look at me, I don’t. Nope, I behave like the good little interviewee I am, and follow her down a corridor that somehow manages to feel colder than the lobby.
I glance at the framed awards on the walls—accolades for innovation, strategy, thought leadership. But none of them matter when she’s already treating me like I don’t belong here.
The interview room is sterile; just a glass table, two chairs, and a notepad already filled with scribbles that she doesn’t offer to explain. She doesn’t even offer me water or anything to drink.
“So…” she says, sitting with a sigh, somehow managing to sound like I’m being problematic. “Tell me why you applied.”
I blink. “Umm, well, I’m a student in Political Communication and your firm has a reputation for impactful voter outreach campaigns, and I—”
“And what, exactly, do you think you can contribute?” she interrupts.
My breath catches. “I’ve worked on two midterm campaigns, focusing on digital messaging and demographic targeting. My thesis centers on reframing political narratives to increase youth engagement, and I—”
Her eyes are trained on her stupid notes while she scribbles something down. “That’s only theoretical.”
Grinding my teeth together, I sweetly say, “It’s research-based, but also applied. My goal—”
“We’re not really looking for theorists right now.”
I blink again, stunned. “This was an active listing. I was told—”
Her chair scrapes back. “Let me save you some time, Ms. Harrington. We’ve already narrowed our pool to candidates with… worthy referrals.”
My stomach drops. “But I… wait, what do you mean worthy? Mine came from a Georgetown alumnus. Doesn’t that qualify?” I ask, my tone is no longer sugary sweet or even polite. I’m not matching her disinterest, far from it, but there’s no masking the shock I’m feeling.
“Yes, well. Circumstances change,” she says, her tone final.
I don’t know what that means, not really. But it feels like a slap. I sit there, spine rigid, pretending this isn’t humiliating. Pretending I didn’t feel the shift in energy the second she looked up and saw me.
She stands. I don’t even remember finishing my sentence. “Thank you for coming in.”
That’s it; no feedback, no handshake, and still no fucking eye contact.
By the time I step back out into the sun, I can barely breathe.
Christ, this wasn’t a bad interview, it was…
fuck I don’t even know. It was humiliating, and it felt like a setup.
Like a hazing or cruel prank. Those people didn’t want me there.
They’d made up their mind before I ever walked through the door.
I don’t even remember walking down the block, but somehow I make it to the corner and order another rideshare via the app.
I should’ve waited and gathered myself before stepping into another confined space with a stranger, but my pride’s already dangling by a thread and I can’t stomach the idea of lingering outside that building any longer.
The car pulls up, and I climb in without a word.
This time it smells like stale coffee. The driver says something polite, but I don’t catch it. I just nod, fix my eyes on the window, and pull out my phone to text Lena as promised.
Me: Interview was a total joke. Tell you later.
Her reply comes almost instantly.
Lee: WHAT?! Are you okay? Do I need to kill someone?
A dry laugh escapes me, small and humorless. I don’t answer. If I say anything else, I’ll cry, and I refuse to break down in the back of this car.
When we reach campus, the driver tells me to have a good day. I’m just about to give him a mechanical and polite reply when I catch myself. No, after what I’ve just been through I won’t treat someone else in such a brushoff-ish way.
“Thank you so much for the drive,” I say, forcing a smile. “Have a great day.” Then I step out into the sunlight and force myself to breathe.
Georgetown’s campus is busy, but not overwhelming. Still, I feel adrift. Like the rhythm of everything around me has moved on while I’m stuck playing a different beat. A slower, heavier one.
Jus t as I reach the front steps of the Political Strategy wing, a familiar voice cuts through the fog.
“Piper!”
I turn. Mrs. Ellis is striding toward me, her heels clicking with the kind of purpose that usually means someone’s about to be chewed out.
“There you are,” she almost snaps. “I’m so glad I ran into you.” She doesn’t sound glad at all.
My stomach sinks. “Did something happen?”
She sighs, adjusting a strand of hair that’s escaped her updo. “I just got off a call from Lauren Chase.”
The name lands like a slap.
“She said you were rude and unprofessional. While Lauren didn’t outright say that you wasted their time, she hinted at it,” Mrs. Ellis adds, voice tightening. “She even used the word entitled.”
My mouth opens—but nothing comes out. Then I blink, trying to catch up. “Wait… what? That’s not true at all,” I almost growl. “Not only was I early and prepared, I looked at her and smiled. Which is more than I can say for how she treated me. She acted like I was a bother from the moment we met.”
Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have said all that as it most definitely doesn’t sound professional. But seriously, fuck Lauren Chase and whatever crawled up her ass just before my interview.
“I’m not accusing you of anything, Piper. I’m just telling you what was said.” Mrs. Ellis’ tone softens, but only slightly. “It’s your word against theirs. And unfortunately, they’re the ones with the influence.”
Heat prickles beneath my skin. Shame. Embarrassment. Rage.
I fold my arms. “So, what, they slam a door in my face and then call my advisor to twist the knife?”
Mrs. Ellis gives me a long, assessing look. “I said I’d speak with you before making any judgment. And for what it’s worth, I do believe you.”
I nod tightly, but the damage is already done. They wanted me humiliated. That interview wasn’t just a rejection. It was orchestrated. At least that’s how it feels to me. Maybe I’m reaching, maybe I just don’t want to believe I deserved what Lauren dished out.
Then again, what reason could there be to orchestrate anything like that? Yeah, I’m probably just making up excuses to ignore the reality that they just didn’t like me.