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Orchid
I stand on the sidewalk, clutching the strap of my knockoff designer purse outside the gleaming Mitchell and Associates tower in Manhattan. Come on, Orchid. You’ve got this. My throat feels uncomfortably dry and I’m trembling like a leaf on the breeze in my high heels. But it’s the height of summer and I have no good reason to be shaking—except for the fact that I’m about to enter the proverbial lion’s den. Mitchell and Associates is the most prestigious law firm in all of New York. Built on old money, their clientele is exclusive; consisting mostly of celebrities, politicians, and the shamelessly wealthy extortionists of society.
It takes years’ worth of busting ass or ass-kissing to get an internship here ... That, or a called in favor. I don’t belong in a place like this. Not by a long shot. I’m literally nobody—barely middle-class—but my father has known the firm’s CEO since they were boys, and all I’ve ever been told is that Mr. Mitchell owes him one. So, when I started studying law, and waiting tables at two different restaurants just to make ends meet, Dad decided it was high time he called that favor in.
To say I’m grateful to my father would be a colossal understatement. Mitchell and Associates is what any up-and-coming lawyer should aspire to. They’re what dreams are made of. Just getting your foot in the door is something to brag about. And while the position I’m being offered has yet to be disclosed, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to climb the corporate ladder and better my life and future prospects. I’ve scored a ticket to the most exclusive firm in the city, and one of the best in the United States. I’m not going to fuck it up. I’m going to chase my dreams no matter the cost and make my father proud.
With a last glance up at the soaring tower, I steel my nerves and put my best foot forward.
Security guards in crisp black suits and matching wrap-around shades greet me at the rotating glass door.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection and my stomach lurches. I look like a fish out of water. Despite my best efforts to look sophisticated and presentable, I look more like the curvy substitute teacher you see so often in bad pornos. It’s hard to look elegant and sophisticated when the ladies are trying to pop your buttons, and your ass practically has its own postcode.
“What’s your business here?” asks one of the guards, his reflective gaze snapping to my face, before eyeing me over.
Even though I’m a grown woman I feel suddenly like a child caught with someone else’s candy. The guards are burly, built, and intimidating in every sense of the word. It takes me a full minute to find my voice, and when I do it sounds apologetic and anxious. “I, ah—” I lick my lips and tuck an errant lock of hair behind my ear, my gaze finding the ground. “I’m here for a job interview with Mr. Mitchell. He’s expecting me at ten o’clock.”
The first security guard nods subtly, and the second security guard steps behind me. Suddenly sandwiched between the two of them, he pats me down thoroughly. His strong hands dutifully trace my curves, sliding all the way down my bare legs to my heels and then back up again.
A shameful thrill races through me at his touch. It’s been a while since I’ve been man-handled so intimately. I just pray they don’t see the heat flushing my cheeks as I avert my eyes.
The security guard takes his place by the door again, arms folding across his chest, his stance strong. “She’s clean,” he says simply.
“Go ahead,” says the first, turning his attention back to the street as if I simply don’t exist, or didn’t just totally get felt up in public.
Re-tucking that damn stray spiral of my mousy brown hair behind my ear again, I nod awkwardly. “Thank you,” I manage, before bustling past, my cheeks still blazing with arousal. I follow the rotating door into the foyer and my stomach drops for the second time inside of ten minutes. Everything about the enormous, clean, and minimalist space screams of wealth and elegance. From the pristine white marble floors flecked with what is no doubt real fucking gold, to the perfectly polished stainless steel doors of the elevators, and the lush, tropical plants artfully displayed in geometric white pots. It’s jaw-droppingly beautiful, and by far the most affluent and stylish place I’ve ever had the privilege of being. I feel like a true imposter.
Nibbling on my inner lip, I take a deep breath and exhale. Time to make the dream happen. Approaching the gleaming glass reception desk, I smile as brightly and confidently as I’m able. “Good morning. My name is Orchid Morton and—”
“Of course, Mr. Mitchell is expecting you, Miss Morton,” the receptionist interrupts before I can finish. “If you take the lift to your right, Mr. Mitchell’s office is on level twelve. His personal secretary, Dahlia, will be there to direct you. Have a pleasant day.”
Thank you,” I squeak, inexplicably flustered by her professional, forthright, and efficacious manner. With an awkward smile I make a beeline for the elevator. Once inside, my anxiety only worsens. I feel trapped, like a frightened kitten cornered by a dog. I’ve never been great with confined spaces. But that’s office life in a nutshell, and I’m going to have to get used to it if I want to succeed here. Mitchell and Associates command only the best. If I don’t pull my weight, and perform above and beyond, my hopes will be dashed in no time. And I don’t want to be the budding lawyer who squandered her chance at the big time, especially when a personal favor was called in to get me here in the first place.
I press the button for floor twelve, swallowing down the familiar stomach lurch of gravity as the lift begins to rise. You can do this, I coach myself. Be professional, smile, and follow instructions. If I can just do that, I might actually secure myself a permanent position. And all those bitches and jerks who taunted and teased me mercilessly throughout my school years will have to suck it, then! If I land Mitchell and Associates, I’ll be the talk of my graduating class come reunion time. And for once I’ll be able to hold my head high. I’ll be more than the fat-shamed victim they drove to eat lunch in the toilets. I’ll be with the highflyers—the real movers and shakers of New York City.
As the elevator doors slide open and the twelfth floor stretches before me, silent and immaculate, I can almost taste success on the tip of my tongue. I’m going to make this work, whatever it takes. Blood, sweat, tears, a pound of flesh or ten? It doesn’t matter. If it gets Mitchell and Associates on my resume? I’ll do it. My future is worth more than my pride, and I’m not afraid of a little dirty work.
“Good morning,” says Dahlia, her blue eyes bright as I step onto the lush, cream carpet that appears barely walked on. “Welcome to Mr. Mitchell’s office. He’ll see you now.”