Chapter 3
Bailey
Idon’t sleep for the next two days.
Tuesday and Wednesday blur together in a haze of coffee, concept sketches, and relentless pressure to prove I’m not just ‘adequate’. My tiny apartment becomes a war zone. Printed mockups cover every surface, my laptop’s glow is the only light at three AM, and takeout containers breed in the sink.
Derek calls six times. I block his number after the third voicemail.
Gretchen texts: You alive?
Barely, I type back. New job. Trying to not get fired.
You didn't tell me about the sex bar guy. We need to catch up.
My fingers freeze over the keyboard. I haven’t given her all the details yet. She'd be too wound up about the sex bar guy turning out to be my new boss. Knowing Gretchen, she'll probably decide it's fate or some budding love story, and all that talk would grate on me while I'm in this mood.
Long story, I finally respond. Tell you later.
By Tuesday night, I have something I’m proud of. The client brief called for a rebrand of a boutique hotel chain. I’ve created something sophisticated but approachable, luxury without pretension.
It’s good. Better than good.
I just hope he sees it.
Monday morning, I’m at my desk by seven, uploading files with shaking hands. The office is mostly empty, except for the early risers and the workaholics. I fit both categories now, and it's just my third day.
I attach the presentation to an email addressed to Daniel Williams, my cursor hovering over send for a full minute. Turning, I hit send before I can overthink it further.
My inbox refreshes almost immediately.
From: Daniel Williams
Subject: RE: Harrington Hotels Concepts.
My office. Now.
My stomach drops to my shoes.
I stand, smoothing my silk charcoal grey skirt paired with a burgundy blouse that Gretchen swears makes me look competent and slightly dangerous. I need both right now.
The few steps from my office to his feel like a walk to the gallows. My reflection in his mirrored window shows a woman who looks calmer than she feels. Good. Fake it until you make it.
His assistant waves me through without looking up.
I knock once on his door.
“Come in.”
Daniel is standing at his desk, my presentation open on his laptop. His face might as well have been carved with stone. The morning light streaming through those ridiculous windows turns his dark hair almost black, highlighting the sharp angles of his face.
I hate that I notice. I hate that my body still remembers what those hands felt like.
“Ms. Rodgers.” He gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
I sit, spine straight, hands folded in my lap.
He turns the laptop toward me. “Walk me through your concept.”
I lean forward slightly, grateful for solid ground. “The Harrington brand currently comes across as cold. The sharp lines and monochrome palettes were hemorrhaging younger clients to competitors who feel more accessible.”
He says nothing but watches me with those stupidly beautiful dark eyes of his.
“I kept the sophistication they’re known for but softened it. As you can see, I used a warmer color palette: sage green, dusty rose, and cream instead of plain white. The new logo maintains the serif font but adds breathing room. It says luxury, but it also says welcome.”
I click through the mockups, moving through the website designs, branded materials, and environmental graphics for the hotel lobbies.
“The tagline I’m proposing: Where elegance meets ease. It positions them as aspirational but attainable.”
Silence.
He leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers, studying the screen. My heart hammers against my ribs.
“The technical execution is flawless,” he says finally.
I wait for the but. There’s always a but.
“The color choices are on-trend. The typography is clean. Your mockups are professional.”
“Thank you.”
“But the creative flourishes are unnecessary.” He taps the screen.
“This illustration work in the margins is distracting. The handwritten font in the tagline reads as unprofessional. And this—” He zooms in on a subtle watercolor effect I'd spent hours perfecting behind the text. “This is decoration.”
Wow.
“With respect, you’re wrong.”
His eyebrows lift fractionally. “Am I?”
“Those ‘flourishes’ are what make the brand memorable. They separate Harrington from every other boutique hotel doing the same minimalist aesthetic. Design isn’t just about clean lines and safe choices. It’s about making people feel something.”
“Feelings don’t close deals.”
“Actually, they absolutely do.” I lean forward, warming to the argument.
“People don’t book hotels based on logic.
They book based on emotion. They want to feel welcomed, valued, and special.
That watercolor effect you hate? It's a subtle luxury. It says we care about details. The illustrations add personality without being overwhelming. And the handwritten tagline creates intimacy.”
“Or it looks amateur.”
“To whom? Corporate boards that want everything sterile and safe?” I’m on my feet now, moving around the desk before I can stop myself. “That’s not the audience. The audience is people who want their hotel to feel like a home, not a showroom.”
I’m standing beside him now, close enough to smell his cologne. I point to the screen, trying to focus on the work instead of his proximity.
“Look at this homepage. Without the illustrations, it’s beautiful but cold. With them, it tells a story. It invites people in.”
He’s silent, studying the design. Or maybe studying me. I can’t tell.
“You feel strongly about this.”
“I feel strongly about doing good work.”
He turns slightly, and suddenly we’re too close. His knee brushes my hip. I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the thin scar near his temple I hadn’t noticed before.
The air between us thickens.
“Good work,” he says quietly, “means meeting client expectations. Not indulging personal creative vision.”
“Client expectations are why everything looks the same. Safe. Boring. Forgettable.”
“And your solution is to ignore the brief?”
“My solution is to exceed it.”
We’re staring at each other now, the argument shifting into something hot. I should stop challenging my boss, but I don’t move.
Neither does he.
“You’re stubborn,” he says, voice low.
“You’re controlling.”
“It’s my company.”
“It’s my design.”
His mouth twitches. It's almost a smile, but it isn't. “You do realize I could fire you for insubordination.”
“You could. But you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m right. And you know it.”
The silence stretches. His gaze drops briefly to my mouth before snapping back up.
He stands abruptly, putting distance between us. The loss of proximity feels like cold water.
“Implement the changes I suggested,” he says, his back to me. “I want a revised version by the end of the day.”
“No.”
He turns, slowly. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll refine the execution and polish the details, but I’m not removing the elements that make this design work. If you want safe and boring, hire someone else.”
The muscle in his jaw ticks. “Don’t take criticism personally, Ms. Rodgers.”
“I’m not here to play it safe, Mr. Williams.”
Surprise flickers across his face for a moment, then it’s gone, replaced by that impenetrable mask.
“You’re dismissed.”
I walk to the door, pulse racing, wondering if I’ve just won or committed career suicide.
“Ms. Rodgers.”
I turn back.
“Don’t make me regret hiring you.”
“I won’t.”
The door closes behind me, and I lean against it momentarily, breathing hard. My hands are shaking.
I did not just argue with my boss. I did not just refuse a direct order. I did not just stand close enough to him to feel the heat radiating off his body.
Oh yes I did.
And I’m not sorry.
Back at my desk, I reopen the files and spend the rest of the day refining details, strengthening concepts, polishing the work until it gleams. The illustrations stay. The watercolor effect stays. The handwritten tagline stays.
By five o’clock, I have something even better than the original.
I send it to him without a cover email. The work speaks for itself.
My phone buzzes almost immediately with a text from Trevor.
T: Family reunion this weekend. You coming?
I smile despite everything. Trevor and his terrible timing.
Me: Wouldn’t miss it. Mom threatened to disown me if I skipped again.
T: Good. I’m bringing Daniel. You’ll finally meet him.
Oh, right. Daniel. The ‘brilliant, driven, saved my ass during crisis’ guy Trevor is always going on about. Hopefully, he's a better Daniel than the one across from me.
Me: Great. Can’t wait.
I set my phone down, staring at my boss's office.
Through the glass walls, Mr. Stranger is standing at his window, phone pressed to his ear. As if sensing my gaze, he turns. Our eyes meet across the forty feet of space. He doesn’t look away. Neither do I. Then he turns back to his call, dismissing me without a word.
I force myself to look at my screen for five minutes before my phone buzzes again.
From: Daniel Williams.
Subject: RE: Harrington Hotels Concepts - Revised.
I click it open, heart in my throat.
We'll present the original version to the client on Friday. Well done.
I exhale slowly, something loosening in my chest.
I won. Through the glass, I catch him watching me again. This time, when our eyes meet, I smile.
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly and returns to his call. But I saw the crack in the armor. He definitely knows I'm more than adequate; he was just trying to rile me up.
I save my files, shut down my computer, and gather my things. The office has emptied around me except for a few workaholics burning the midnight oil.
The elevator doors open, and I step inside, watching the numbers descend.
This weekend, I’ll attend the family reunion, smile through awkward small talk, endure Mom’s passive-aggressive comments about my career choices, and watch Trevor introduce his star best friend.
Then, next week, I’ll pretend I don’t know exactly what Daniel Williams looks like when he loses control.