Chapter 4 #2
I stood there, nails nearly breaking skin on my palms, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. I stared at this fat, ugly man who'd backed me into a corner with his power, rage in my eyes nearly burning through reason.
But I finally lowered my head.
"I'll go." I heard myself say in a hoarse, soulless voice.
I picked up the scalding invitation again and turned toward the door.
"That's more like it." Gary immediately resumed his revolting smile. As I gripped the doorknob, he squeezed my shoulder hard again. "Remember, dress pretty. Don't embarrass me."
I forced down my trembling and yanked the door open, rushing out.
The moment the heavy office door closed behind me, I leaned against the wall and shut my eyes. In my mind, I pulled out a sharp scalpel and, stroke by stroke, chopped Gary's perverted hand into pieces three times over.
It didn't make me feel any better.
I carried that invitation and dragged my heavy feet back to the open-plan office.
Sure enough, before I reached my desk, the cliquish "socialite" colleagues zeroed in like vultures on what I held.
"Well, well, look who's back. Our star Vivienne." Jessica leaned against a partition with her perpetual no-ice, no-sugar iced coffee, her Barbie-pink lips curling into a mocking smile. "What've you got there? Some 'special reward' from Gary?"
Brittany sidled over, her sunken eyes—courtesy of chronic dieting—lighting up. "Oh my God! That's a Volkov wedding invitation! Gary gave you this plum assignment? Why you?"
"Why?" Jessica sneered, her brazen gaze raking over my curvy figure, her tone dripping with jealous sarcasm.
"Obviously, because she's got the right assets.
Gary's an old perv who goes for the busty, ditzy type.
She went to Vegas yesterday on 'business,' got wasted at the airport like some homeless person, got photographed and posted on Twitter.
With that kind of professionalism, Gary still gives her the invite.
Who knows how much 'effort' she put in behind closed doors? "
Brittany covered her mouth with an exaggerated laugh. "Oh, Vivienne, better be careful. Those high-end galas are full of size-zero socialites and supermodels. With your figure, if you bust out of some designer gown, you'll humiliate the whole magazine."
I stopped in the middle of the office.
The snickering, the contemptuous stares—like tiny poisoned needles piercing my skin from all sides.
Two years ago, I probably would've hung my head in shame and fled with red eyes.
But now, I felt nothing. Just cold detachment and a sense of absurdity.
I mentally rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out. I swept my gaze over Jessica and Brittany like they were circus clowns.
Jessica, last month you misplaced a decimal point on the Prada sample report and nearly got the whole department sued. If I hadn't pulled two all-nighters digging through trash for the original receipts, you'd be in court right now.
And you, Brittany. Your "exclusive interview" misspelled the CEO's name. Who groveled to the PR firm begging for mercy to fix the layout before deadline? Me.
You useless idiots who can't even run an Excel spreadsheet, who spend your days gossiping about which Botox brand works best—where the hell do you get off mocking me?
I took a deep breath and buried every barb deep inside. In this cutthroat world, anger was cheap. Only attitude was lethal.
I slowly turned, casually twirled the gold invitation between my fingers, then looked up with a brilliant, crushing smile.
"Thanks for caring, Jessica." My tone was calm, almost condescending. "My figure definitely can't fit into your bargain-bin skeleton look. But I guarantee, even in a burlap sack, I'll get more story material than you ever could."
I paused, my gaze sweeping across the rubbernecking office, my voice low but sharp. "I'm taking this invitation. I'll come back with the most exclusive inside scoop and the most explosive headline. You gossiping wastes of space just sit in your swivel chairs and watch."
Without acknowledging Jessica's rage-twisted face or Brittany's shrill outrage, I turned on my heels, spine straight, and strode like a victorious queen into the hallway toward the break room.
But.
The moment the frosted glass door closed behind me.
The invincible mask I wore shattered like peeling paint.
I slid down the cold wall like boneless jelly, clutching my knees, burying my face in my arms.
"What the hell am I doing..."
I grabbed my hair in a breakdown, screaming silently inside.
I regretted it! My guts twisted with regret!
What was I trying to prove? To clap back at those two idiots, I'd promised to storm my ex's wedding?
Exclusive coverage? What coverage? Would I ask Derek, "Did your conscience hurt when you betrayed your fiancée?" Or ask that skeletal supermodel, "Is stealing someone's fiancé a new fashion trend?"
The second I showed up at that wedding, Derek's smug, mocking face and his buddies' laughing eyes would shred my already tattered self-respect to pieces.
But I'd said it. The words were out. Gary's order hung over my neck like a blade. If I didn't go, I'd lose my job. My mom's medication would stop.
I had no way out. I could only jump into the fire pit blind.
Helplessness and panic swallowed me like a tide.
I sat cross-legged on the cold break room floor, flipped over the gold invitation, and stared at the blank back.
Maybe the Volkovs wouldn't notice a masked woman at their reception?