Page 6 of Vows in Sin

S eraphina

My fingers brush over my lips. How is it that they still tingle this morning?

I couldn’t sleep last night. I lay there, too wound up, too busy feeling all the feelings. My body was alive, wanting to relive every moment.

Last night, a man twice my age fueled daddy issues I didn’t know I had.

Turned me on to kink I didn’t know I needed.

And made me forget that I have a huge meeting this morning.

So, what happened in that office last night is being packed away neatly and tidily in a box in the back of my mind, along with Dame and Reign to be sorted out at a later date over wine with Tabitha.

Right now?

Work.

Still, the feel of his hand spanking me, the heat coming off him.

And that kiss.

It wrecked me.

It takes every ounce of my boss babe self-control to forget about last night.

And focus on the now.

This morning’s meeting is crucial for my career, an exciting opportunity to shine, and a chance to get my name and contact info out to the Magda Nowak crowd. They’re a lively group of the hottest up-and-coming city dwellers in the advertising scene.

After today, I’ll be the queen of Manhattan Marketing! I can feel it!

I might need an LLC. Copyright an official title. Queen of Manhattan. Make it official. Make it mine.

I hop into the shower, exfoliate, and envision marketing gear: no cheesy hats, water bottles, or t-shirts; instead, yoga mats, nail polish bottles, and makeup cases featuring my face.

I apply a conditioning mask, and while I let the coconut treatment work its magic, I envision my logo. I could possibly switch around the words. I picture “Manhattan Marketing Queen” brightly displayed across billboards.

Fresh out of the shower, I focus on the time-consuming task of taming my curly hair. I fight frizz with leave-in conditioner, curl cream, and copious amounts of gel, then dry it with a diffuser attachment. Perfectly bouncy coils spring from my scalp.

My hot pink coffin-shaped gel nails, featuring a white line and diamond on the tip, are only one week old, timed perfectly for this meeting. I prefer them a bit longer, but not so much that the nail bed shows above the cuticle.

My black power suit, with its hot pink lining and piping, was drycleaned last week and freshly steamed yesterday morning. It’s hanging from the hook on the front of my closet door, airing out and gathering positive energy.

A little type A, you say? Only with my work, my appearance, and my apartment. I have a severe case of ADD, am scatterbrained at times, yet have the unique ability to deep dive into my interests, using an otherworldly amount of focus to achieve my goals.

Socially, I’m a go-with-the-flow girl, like when Cleopatra recently asked me to accompany her to Italy. I jumped at the chance, rearranging my entire schedule for the next two weeks without a hint of stress.

And I’m so glad I went.

Her stepbrother, Blaze Bachman, was our host for the trip.

He provided me with a sun-drenched guest house featuring cream-colored walls, which served as the perfect workspace.

After spending days photographing throughout Italy, I returned to the Bachman Estate, with its deep teal lake and snowcapped mountains as my backdrop I created a magnificent campaign for my client.

I also returned with a slight obsession over Dame Bachman, but this morning we’ll leave that in its neat little ‘issues’ box.

Right now, my focus is on PalmVolt.

A brand new caffeinated coconut water. The head of the parent drink company of PalmVolt, is one of those women I look up to, the kind of kickass boss lady I’d like to be at her age. Even her name is commanding, Magda. It could be short for magnanimous.

Mags and I had a one-on-one meeting where she shared her vision for the campaign.

I usually get a printout of what the company expects, but Magda insisted she works better without those constraints and can speak freely off the top of her head.

It’s not how I would do things, since I prefer having a hard copy of every detail, but she’s a powerhouse, and I was there to learn.

I sat, listening intently and taking notes. I didn’t want to miss a thing.

As I pack my glossy prints into my black cloth over-the-shoulder portfolio for safekeeping, I murmur my mantra to myself.

“My images are amazing. They are going to love my work. I’m unstoppable.

Everyone loves me.” I slap myself a high-five, like the total dork that I am, yet I hide from everyone.

Smiling at my reflection in the mirror, I shout, “Show them what you’ve got, Seraphina! ”

I twerk a bit— enough to get the blood flowing. Not enough to wrinkle the suit.

A ride in the private town car the agency sent for me, and I’m sailing up to the ninth floor on a spotless glass elevator, my heavy portfolio bag over my shoulder, loaded with photo boards.

I stare out the glass wall of the elevator with awe. “Just like Charlie Bucket.”

11 th floor. Ding. Door opens.

A cheerful receptionist greets me, guiding me down a long hall to a conference room in the back.

I enter a room filled with the curious faces of important people surrounding a gleaming glass- topped conference table.

There’s a wall of windows stretching behind them, showcasing the Manhattan skyline.

Magda sits at the head of the table, a line of her soldiers seated to her right and left. Without standing, she introduces me to the room.

“Thank you, Magda. If you’ll all bear with me for a second, I’ll get these set up, and then we can start.

I can’t wait to get your feedback.” With a touch of flair, I pull the stack of photo boards from my massive fabric carrier, placing each one lovingly on the tall black easels that were set up for me earlier.

One by one, I display photos of white-toothed teens smiling and lounging on rocks, with Rome in the background and the breeze from the Tyrrhenian Sea fluttering the casual linen they wear, a colorful bottle of PalmVolt cradled lovingly in their hands.

It’s absolutely everything Magda wanted for the campaign.

Nailed it!

I give myself a nod of approval. I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. Pasting a smile on my face, I turn to face the group.

They stare intently at the photos, creases in their foreheads. I expected smiles, but I’m glad they’re taking this seriously. I guess? The air in the room feels strange, thick with tension.

I tell myself it’s just contemplation, that I’m going to blow them away.

Before I can begin my speech, a voice pierces the silent room.

“We can’t use these.” I scan the table for the owner of the voice. It belongs to the young man sitting to Magda’s right. The one wearing thick-framed glasses and rocking a K-pop haircut. He shakes his head, his features twisting in a grimace as he looks at me. “We can’t use any of this.”

I take in the blank stares all directed my way. My confident, borderline cocky grin slowly slips from my face as A creeping wave of white heat travels toward my face, filling my stomach with nausea as it passes by.

“I don’t understand,” I manage to get out. “What do you mean?”

“Clark is right,” Magda says, her tone threaded with profound disappointment. “We can’t use any of this.” She shakes her head. Her cheeks pinken, like she’s embarrassed for me.

Why won’t her eyes meet mine? I try to get her to look at me. “Magda?”

“We can’t target teens,” she mumbles.

She still won’t look at me.

“I thought teens were my target?” I squeak.

“No.” Staring past me, she blinks. Twice.

My stomach sinks like the cable cut in the glass elevator.

Oh god. This is terrible. It’s all gone wrong.

I have all the notes from my project, which are on my desk at my apartment. I was meticulous in my review of Magda’s requests, and that was before I even started outlining my ideas.

How did I get this wrong?

I’ve made the biggest mistake of my career.

I attempt to fix this disaster. “Aren’t teens the ones loading up on caffeine?”

“I thought I made this clear when we hired you,” Magda says. “PalmVolt is an adult beverage. We’re targeting the thirties crowd. Peak of their career, starting families, signing mortgages, attempting to have it all with no energy to do any of it.”

“Each 12-ounce bottle holds two servings of PalmVolt,” Clark says. “Each serving holds 200 milligrams of caffeine. The recommended dose for teens is a max of 100 milligrams per day.”

One bottle. 400 mg of caffeine. “That’s a lot.”

“Rrrrriiight.” Clark nods. “Which is why we’d never go after teens for PalmVolt.”

“I-I had no idea,” I stutter. “I don’t have kids. I’m not even sure I want them. Yes, I’d love a pair of small, well-behaved dogs one day, when I’m not having to take them down three flights of stairs to let them do their business, but I know nothing about kids' health.”

Oh god, I’m rambling. Am I rambling?

“My dear Seraphine. I held so much hope for you.” Magda, cold as ice, and finally able to look at me, points to the door. “We’ll no longer be requiring your services. Goodbye.”

And just like that, I’m dismissed.

I know Magda specifically said teens in that meeting. I look from her to Clark. Could the great Magda Nowak be gaslighting me right now? And if so, do I call her out? Tell everyone in this room that it was her mistake, not mine?

I glance at my shiny, colorful boards, holding back tears for the hours of painstaking work I put in, the hope I held for the launch, the promise of success I held so tightly. What do I do? I let my gaze dance over the table of professionals now staring at me with either anger, laughter, or pity.

I reach Magda’s face.

A shiver runs down my spine from the ice queen’s glare. The hatred in her eyes tells me one thing.

This must be my mistake.

“I’m sorry.” With shaky hands, I grab my portfolio carrier. “So sorry. I’m so sorry.” Tossing the empty bag over my shoulder, I make for the door like there’s a fire behind me.

My fingers wrap around the door handle when I hear Magda call out, “Please. Take those with you. We have no need for them.”

This feels like a bad dream.

“O—kay.” All their eyes are on me as I turn back around. “Right.”

Pressing on a tight smile, I hold back tears, avoiding their gazes as I stagger toward the easels. Of course, I drop the first board I pick up. Uncomfortable giggles fill the tense air behind me. No one comes to help.

“We don’t need any of this,” she says, again, as if I missed it the first time she said it. She waves her hand through the air as if she wishes the gesture would make me and all my work go away.

Trust me, Magda, no one wishes I could disappear right now more than I do.

Humiliation haunts me as I take down the images one by one, slipping them into the black portfolio. I suck. I royally fucked up. I’m a disaster.

I zip up the portfolio carrier, throw the strap over my shoulder, and run for the door.

When I reach the street, there’s no black town car pulled up to the curb waiting to take me home.

I head for the subway station.