Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 29567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
“Only when the other person is so obviously wrong.”
“Get out of my office and don’t say a goddamn thing on your way out.”
Thankfully, she obliges.
“What were you saying about her being a great hire again?” Braxton is standing by the door, smirking. “Rewind that back for me, please.”
“You can get the hell out, too…”
THE INTERN
IVY
Somehow, I manage to survive my first day without catching a felony charge for assaulting Mr. Sutton.
I even smiled when I brought him two cups of coffee and didn’t utter an “I hate you” when he complained that I didn’t bring him a spoon to stir it with.
However, fifteen minutes into this morning, and I’m considering calling in a bomb threat.
“I told you that at this level, ‘on time’ is late, and ‘early’ means ‘on time.’” Tracey hasn’t stopped critiquing me since I stepped off the elevator. “Today is a pre-pitch day, and everything runs twenty minutes earlier than usual.”
There’s no use in asking her why.
I stuff my cell phone into the desk drawer.
“The catering team is serving breakfast and lunch at the meeting today, so we don’t have to worry about Mr. Sutton’s coffee—but!” She wags a finger in the air before pointing to a golden bull-shaped vase in the hallway. “That’s where I stuff extra packets of the custom honey and mint that he prefers, just in case the catering team doesn’t bring enough.”
“Um, okay…”
“That’s your cue to go over there and get them.” She snaps her fingers. “Get six of each and get used to carrying them in your purse at all times. At. All. Times.”
I walk over to the vase and lift it, expecting to see “packets,” but they’re mini glass jars.
The moment I’ve stuffed them into my purse, Tracey is looping her arm in mine and pulling me into the elevator.
We ride down to a place with a gold-plated sign that announces “Executive Wing” when the doors open.
The floor reveals another personality disorder in this building. It’s a warehouse space with exposed brick walls and concrete floors.
Boxes marked with “decor” and “client dress-up materials” line the walls, and banners from previous successful campaigns hang from the steel-beamed ceiling.
In the center of it all sits a conference room enclosed in sleek black glass.
Mr. Sutton appears out of nowhere, so I trail behind—clutching his blue notebook against my own.
The moment we enter the room, the creative staff stands to their feet.
“Good afternoon, sir.” “Hello, Mr. Sutton.” “It’s a pleasure to see you today, sir.”
The greetings come in quick succession, but Mr. Sutton only nods and takes his seat at the head of the table.
I wait for everyone to retake their seats and realize there’s no chair for me.
Perfect…
Mr. Sutton nods once, and Tracey gestures for me to open his notebook.
“Take notes for him,” she says. “Very detailed notes.”
“You were serious about him not taking his own?”
“Ivy…” She glares at me, and I click my pen as someone dims the lights.
A tall guy in a navy button-down shirt takes the lead, flipping through slides on the wall-sized screen to reveal today’s client.
Skittles: Taste the rainbow. Bring back a sweet era.
“Ah.” He picks up a huge vase of Skittles candies from the floor and passes them around. “Our client wants us to design a campaign to make people fall in love with this candy again, and when I’m done showing you what we’ve done, I think you’ll be confident in us sharing this with them.”
I steal a few bags from the jar and watch.
He and his assistant break out six-foot glittery mood boards and early concept visuals.
There’s a lot of talk about summer pop-up shops and high-level immersion, but every few moments, he mentions an expense that makes me nearly choke.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand for the initial digital campaign…”
“Eighty-six thousand for the research and development for Gen-Z…”
“One hundred fifty thousand to capture millennials with our standard streamlining approach.”
“Enough bloated words.” Mr. Sutton suddenly interrupts him. “What are we doing with tone?”
The room stiffens, and the lead guy straightens. “Confident. Elevated. With a hint of edge.”
Mr. Sutton raises a brow. “Define ‘edge.’”
“Slightly less polished than the Chrysler campaign,” the guy replies. “More modern. But still aspirational.”
“Hmmm.” Mr. Sutton nods. “Continue.”
The room exhales, and the presentation rolls on for another forty minutes.
“Okay.” Mr. Sutton waves his hand. “Take lunch. All of you. Except Ivy. You stay. You too, Marcus.”
The room scatters without protest. Marcus—the lead pitch guy—stays seated, clearly irritated.
I stay too, heart hammering in my throat.
Mr. Sutton speaks before the door even clicks shut.
“What do you think, Miss Locke?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You were quiet and didn’t attempt to interrupt Marcus’s presentation at all,” he says. “I assume that means you’ve got thoughts.”
“Isn’t she an intern?” Marcus asks, looking unimpressed with my presence. “Like, the super problematic one?”
“Not anymore.” Mr. Sutton looks at me. “Do you have any thoughts?”