- Visitor
Sign in
"The list for Julian's new project is closing! That's a Brooklyn landmark! Did you fight for it?"
Maya slammed her hand down on my table.
I glanced at my phone. No unread texts.
"I'm not going."
Maya was so angry her hand shook, spilling her Trader Joe's oat milk latte all over the table.
"You're not going? That was your idea! What he did at the awards was highway robbery!" she yelled. "He's using you!"
"So what?" I cut her off, exhausted.
Using me? Of course, I knew.
Four years ago, the Lower East Side project. We holed up in a shoebox apartment in Chinatown that even the rats avoided, drawing day and night.
When it succeeded, he was the darling of the New York Times. I was Jane Doe.
When I tried to fight for even a little credit in the conference room, he executed me with a smile in front of all the partners:
"Layla, don't let your personal emotions affect your professional judgment. That's called being 'unprofessional.'"
He didn't even need to raise his voice to make me the company joke: a trophy girlfriend trying to sleep her way up but lacking the talent.
"He's right about some things," I said, looking at Maya with dead eyes. "I'm really not cut out for this industry."
"That's bullshit!"
"I'm tired, Maya."
Saying that sentence felt like cutting the last cable keeping me operational.
Those dreams of the Pritzker Prize, the vows to leave my name on the Manhattan skyline...
Snap. Shattered.
The sound of an ambulance siren drifted from the window, shrill and urgent, fading into the distance.
Just like my six wasted years.
Sign in with Google
By proceeding, We will assume you have read and agree to our Terms of Service and Privacy Policy.