Father Figure

Chase Productions

The morning light came in through the wide windows of my apartment in Greenwich Village. It was too early and too quiet. I had been awake since seven, standing in front of my open closet for nearly half an hour. Every outfit looked wrong. The navy trousers felt too formal. The beige dress too casual. The white blouse I ironed last night had a crease across the collar that wouldn't come out.

The interview was in less than two hours. I had rehearsed it in my head too many times already. I wanted to appear confident, intelligent, and capable of handling whatever was asked of me. Instead, I looked like someone in the middle of a manic episode.

I pulled my hair into a low bun, then let it down again. I had straightened it the night before, but it had already lost its shape. The ends bent slightly where I had slept wrong. I ran the flat iron over a few strands until the smell of heat filled the air. It helped. Not much, but enough.

The kitchen clock read 8:26. The office was in Midtown. The train ride would take about thirty minutes, which left no time for indecision. I buttoned the blouse, tucked it in, and slipped on a pair of black heels. They were polished but not new, and that seemed acceptable.

I checked my portfolio twice before putting it in my purse. Then I checked again.

Elizabeth Olsen's company, Chase Productions, had only opened a month ago. Everyone in the industry was waiting to see what she would make of it. I had read every article, every vague press release, but none of them said what she was like in person. Some called her disciplined, some said demanding. I doubted any of them had actually met her.

I locked the door, took a breath, and reminded myself that it was just an interview. A job. An opportunity. Then I walked downstairs and out into the street, trying to convince myself I wasn't already late.

The subway ride consisted of me checking to make sure I had everything I needed, even though I had already triple-checked by now. I bit my nails down to the quick, checked the time every five minutes, and thought about how different my life could be if I got this job. Then I mentally slapped myself for thinking that far ahead when I hadn't even had the interview yet.

The train reached its stop fifteen minutes before my scheduled time. I stepped out into the morning rush and walked until I reached the building. It was tall, sleek, all glass and steel. I took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then pushed through the doors. The lobby was quiet and immaculate. Everything was gray, white, and sharp. Even the receptionists looked coordinated, dressed in muted tones that matched the walls.

"Good morning, I'm here for my interview at Chase Productions," I said, my voice steadier than I expected.

"Yes, that will be on the 50th floor. Elevators that way." One of them smiled politely, already returning to her computer.

"Thank you," I replied, and walked toward the elevators, my pulse loud in my ears.

In the elevator, I checked my reflection in the mirrored walls, tucked my hair behind my ears, and straightened my blazer. When the doors opened, I stepped out onto the fiftieth floor.

The hallway was long and white, lined with chairs on both sides. At least twenty people were already waiting. I took an empty seat and practiced steady breathing, fidgeting with the rings on my fingers.

"Hi, I'm Devon," said the girl beside me.

I looked up at the blue-eyed blonde with a friendly smile. "Hey, I'm Gabriella."

"I'm so nervous. I didn't realize there would be this many people," she said.

"Me neither. How long have you been waiting?"