Chapter 7
THE CROISSANT INCIDENT
EMMA
Monday morning arrives with the unavoidable urgency of a fire alarm.
I arrive at work forty minutes early, my blazer hanging loose on my shoulders despite my best efforts to adjust it.
The lobby is enormous. Glass everywhere, reflecting a version of me that looks less sure than I need her to be.
The mirrors catch me from every angle. I look like someone pretending to belong.
The creative department occupies the entire twelfth floor, an open-plan expanse of chaos posing as organization.
There are mid-century modern sofas and brightly colored brainstorming pods, but the atmosphere is oxygen-starved.
It smells like burnt coffee, expensive cologne, and fear.
The coffee station has real espresso. Not the instant powder I've been rationing for three weeks. I nearly cry.
“Emma Sinclair!” Hawthorne appears from his corner office, his silver hair groomed to perfection. He’s polished, professional, and surprisingly friendly. “Ready for the grand tour?”
I follow him through the maze of desks and pods, trying to memorize faces that blur together in their mutual suspicion.
The recession has made everyone protective of their square footage.
Every introduction is a handshake and a calculation.
Am I a threat or a temp? I understand the calculation.
I’ve spent months on the other side of it, desperate enough to take any seat at the table.
“This is Miles,” Hawthorne says, stopping at a desk occupied by a man in his fifties. “Miles is our senior creative. He will be helping you get oriented.”
Miles offers a smile that is entirely hollow. “Another fresh face. How wonderful.” His tone is warm enough to satisfy Hawthorne, but I spot the jagged edge underneath. “GVM certainly believes in the potential of new talent.”
“Emma comes highly recommended,” Hawthorne says. “Her portfolio was one of the strongest we’ve seen in years.”
“Oh, I am sure it was to be selected.” Miles stands, extending a hand. “Welcome to the trenches.”
His hand barely closes around mine before he pulls away.
“I am looking forward to learning from you,” I say, matching his artificial warmth.
“Of course you are.” He wipes his palm on his trousers afterward. Almost casual enough to miss. “I will make sure you understand our standards. We have a very specific way of doing things here.”
Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Perhaps he’s just tired or stressed. First-day nerves can turn a shadow into a monster.
Hawthorne steers me away, his hand barely touching my elbow. “Miles has been here for fifteen years. He knows every client’s history.”
What he doesn't say is that Miles sees me as a threat to those fifteen years.
The rest of the morning is a blur of passwords and protocols. I am relieved to find I recognize the software, and the coffee tastes like the first sip of financial stability. My desk is in the center of the pod, devoid of walls or privacy, surrounded by people who’d prefer an empty chair.
Around noon, respite arrives in designer heels.
“Lunch. Now.” Zoe doesn't wait for an answer. She links her arm through mine and marches me toward the elevator.
She takes me to a sandwich place where a meal doesn't require a loan. “So? Surviving the creative cave?”
“Miles hates me already.”
“Miles hates everyone. Last year, he made an intern cry for using a serif font on a mockup.” Zoe takes a bite of her sandwich. “The intern’s choice was actually better. That’s why Miles really hated him.”
“Comforting.”
“Look, everyone's scared. We lost twelve people last quarter. You being here means someone else isn't.” She reaches across to squeeze my hand. “Hawthorne hired you himself. That means something. He doesn't make mistakes.”
I want to believe her. I need to believe her.
Back at my desk, I bury myself in work, studying every campaign they've run over the past year and memorizing brand voices and client preferences. Miles walks by occasionally, never stopping, hovering long enough to make me wonder if I'm doing something wrong.
By seven, the office is mostly empty. I'm still at my desk, sketching concepts for a campaign that isn't due for weeks, when Hawthorne stops by.
“Go home, Emma. It's your first day.”
“Just wanting to get ahead.”
He sits on the edge of my desk, informal in a way that feels practiced. “Can I give you some advice?”
I nod, maybe too eagerly.
“This job will take everything you give it and ask for more. Set boundaries now, or you'll burn out before you ever get to shine.” He stands, straightening his jacket. “We hired you for your talent, not your ability to live at your desk. Fresh perspective needs rest.”
I watch him walk back to his office, something loosening in my chest. My first impression was right. He's not just polished, he's actually decent. In a place like this, it feels rarer than it should.
***
On Tuesday morning, I try to bridge the gap. I stop at a bakery near my apartment and buy a dozen croissants, still warm and smelling of butter. I arrange them on a plate from the canteen and set them near the coffee station as a peace offering.
“Oh, how sweet,” a woman named Rachel says, pausing by the plate. “I would, but I’m doing keto. Carbs are basically poison.”
“Intermittent fasting,” says the designer behind her. “My window doesn't open until noon.”
“Maybe later,” someone else murmurs without slowing down.
By eleven, the croissants are still there, going stale under the fluorescent lights.
In the canteen, the same people who couldn't possibly eat carbs line up for the subsidized cake. Rachel takes two slices.
I tell myself it's not personal. They don't know me yet. Once they see I'm not here to threaten anyone, things will warm up.
The rest of Tuesday is worse. Miles assigns me busy work, formatting documents and organizing files from 2019.
I do it without a word, then stay late working on my own campaign concepts.
I keep Hawthorne’s advice about boundaries in mind, but the urge to prove my worth is a physical itch I can’t scratch.
I refuse to be wasteful, so I pack the croissants back into the box. On my way to the bus stop, I give them to the regular beggar who sits outside the station. He thanks me with more genuine warmth than I’ve received in forty-eight hours.
By Wednesday, the pattern is undeniable.
When Miles walks by, the designers in my pod suddenly find their screens fascinating.
When I ask a question in the shared chat, the responses are slow and carefully neutral.
James used to tell me I was too sensitive or that I was imagining things, but I know this feeling.
I spent two years thinking I was the problem. I refuse to do that again.
Thursday crawls. I keep my head down and speak only when spoken to. Miles drops a massive stack of files on my desk at four o’clock with a pleasant, empty smile.
“I need these organized by client and date. It should keep you busy for a while.”
The stack is enormous. It’s an intentional attempt to bury me in the past.
“Of course,” I say. “I’m happy to help.”
I work through the files methodically. I don't let myself check the time until my phone buzzes at six o’clock.
Kai, Handkerchief Guy.
My chest flutters like an idiot. He texted. There's a world outside this building, and he's in it.
Kai: Hi Emma, it’s Kai from the museum. I hope your new job is going well. There is a painting class tomorrow evening if you’re interested. Beginners welcome. That would be me, of course! - K
I stare at the screen until it dims. He texted. He waited nearly a week, but he actually reached out.
Me: Hi! The job is... a job. Tomorrow works. I finish at 19:00. Where is the class?
The three dots appear immediately. He was waiting.
Kai: Perfect. The class is at Studio Loft on 5th. It starts at 19:30. I hope you say yes because I already booked us spots. They were going fast.
Us. He booked spots for us. Presumptuous. And exactly what I needed.
Me: Confident of you! But yes, I’ll be there.
Kai: Great. I’ll meet you outside at 19:15. And if you’re hungry after, we could grab a bite?
He wants to have dinner. The tightness I've been carrying all week eases. Someone wants my company.
I find Zoe at the coffee machine five minutes later.
“He texted,” I whisper. “He invited me to a painting class tomorrow.”
“Is he an artist?” Zoe asks.
“He’s in investments. He said he plans to be terrible at it.”
Zoe grins over her cup. “I like him already. Go. Paint something terrible. Eat food that didn't come from a microwave. Talk to a human who isn't trying to sabotage your career.”
“You’re the best,” I say, squeezing her arm.
I finish the archival files by seven o'clock. Miles underestimated my speed or my spite. I am not sure which. I leave them on his desk with a sticky note. Done. Let me know if you need anything else.
Kill them with kindness. Or at least confuse them with competence.
On my way home, I think about Kai’s navy jacket hanging in my closet.
It still smells like him. I will bring it tomorrow and return it.
The monogrammed handkerchief, however, is folded and tucked into my nightstand drawer like some Victorian keepsake.
It’s a small, soft memory I am not ready to give up.