Romance In A Column

chapter three,

    Gathering the last highlight of the emails exchanged between herself and Nicholas Bautista, noting keywords on a post-it and flattening the colorful paper on a scribbled page of her planer, Eryn rises from her seat, rolling her shoulder blades to ease the tense muscles.

    Kitten heels carry her through the aisles of desks, a firm sound—contrast to the faltering confidence—that muffles the overlapping farwells of her co-workers and the diligent typing slowing to inexistence, at least on Eryn's ears.

    The world around her is too immersed in leaving to notice the pitter-patter, created by her choice of shoes and the polished cement floors of their office, added to the melody of their mellowing down evenings.

    Approaching the imposing door, Eryn raps her knuckles twice against the matte crystal before gripping the handle and pushing it open.

    "Eryn," Wyetta addresses, leaning back onto her seat once her employee settles in the center of the room.

    Not many could say they've visited the Devil's den, even less could state they're recurrent visitors. And perhaps, her daily pop-by's in Wyetta's office make her a rarity, an unorthodox human or sin personified.

    Though Eryn doesn't consider herself either, the facts are indisputable. On an hourly basis she stands in the center of pale walls, with her feet firmly planted on the faux fur rug while being suffocated by the stare of a woman far more complex than the sprawling city visible through the floor-to-ceiling window behind her wooden desk.

    On the edge of the room, seated on the mustard chesterfield sofa, is a woman unfamiliar to Eryn.

    "Mrs. Jeff," Eryn begins, seeping to her tone the professionalism she's in shortage of. "Nicholas Bautista, the freelance photographer for the project, he—well, we came to an agreement, with the parameters you set of course. And I thought, well you told me to brief you on the matter."

    "Yes," Wyetta says, though Eryn isn't entirely certain in reference to which part of her babbles. "I gathered as much. Will Mr. Bautista be supporting us with this project under the fee I agreed upon?"

    Straying her eyes from her boss, Eryn considers the note attached to her planner. Aligning the various keywords into a coherent, direct though that touches on Nichola's viewpoint while pleasing Mrs. Jeff.

    "He requested for more information on the shoot—the setting, if any equipment would be provided by the magazine, the theme." Inhaling, Eryn raises her eyesight to Wyetta's nude nails, tapping against the ebony desk. "Though Mr. Bautista did say he's a versatile photographer, he would appreciate being more informed in what he's agreeing to. But yes, he did agree."

    "Eryn at this point you should know better than to bore me with the specifics," she informs with a roll of her dark eyes, beckoning the unaddressed presence in the room with a lithe finger. "I want to hear silver linings."

    Tilting her head to the side, her bob of silky hair follows the motion, Wyetta leads the attention of the room towards the bystander of the conversation who has come to stand besides her. "Eryn, this is Deniz Gürsel, the new feature writer we've brought aboard and lead on the project we'd like Nicholas Bautista to shoot."

    Eryn offers a rather faint smile at the woman in question. All lips, no teeth answered by a single, disinterested nod. Alright then, Eryn thinks.

    Though this is the first she's seen of Deniz, it's certainly not the first Eryn has heard of the cutthroat journalist scouted right out of college by Los Angeles Times yet was recently fired. Rumors circulate the journalism network, now hot topics on the Let's Be Honest breakroom, which speculate her—alike the five others of renown journalists inside aforementioned publication—being a part of something tightly kept under wraps.