First and foremost, I want to say: Thank you to HM for including STILETTO SISTERHOOD in their campaign, and be sure to keep your eye on their official Wattpad profile, because there is so much more to come.
Of the Sisters, Isobel's always known that she's wanted to be the force of change—real change—in the world. To be a voice for the voiceless, the momentum behind a movement to break down obstacles and sow the seeds of positivity. In this scene she is out on her first assignment following the grizzly New York massacre that shocked the LGBTQ community. This is where her passion project: Passivist Activist will find its legs to stand and take its first shaky step towards the horizon and all its glorious possibilities.
This is an important moment for her, and a terrifying one. As it should be. Because if your dreams don't scare you than you're not dreaming big enough.
Which is why teaming up with H&M was the perfect vehicle to explore this pivotal moment as their #ladylike campaign is all about redefining both societal perception, and shedding the limiting mould of 'gender expectations', to find yourself and your own truth.
So, get out there, chase all of your dreams, and—thanks to H&M—you can look fabulous while doing it.
***
"Are you okay? You seem nervous."
Isobel jerked at the sound of Nneka's voice, softly spoken, at her side. She'd disappeared so deep into her thoughts she'd almost forgotten where she was, or more importantly, why she was here. She blinked openly at her boss and realized now was not the time to dwell on conflicting thoughts of last night. She was here, in New York City Hall, about five minutes away from meeting the Mayor before heading to the site of a grizzly mass shooting of an LGBTQ event in Manhattan.
Three days ago the community had gathered in support and celebration of equality. Men, women—some even pregnant—when a masked shooter had bolted all the doors to the venue and opened fire with high-powered assault rifles. In less than thirty minutes he'd killed or seriously injured almost every single person trapped within those walls.
As police brought down the doors, surrounding him, he'd cried out, 'Make America great again' before taking his own life. A coward fueled by another coward's words of hatred.
"A bit. It's a heavy subject—such extreme hatred," she admitted and struggled not to fidget, or feel embarrassed by her admission. Priya had asked her the same question yesterday while leaving LaGuardia airport and Isobel decided there was no point changing her answer now just because this was her boss. "I've never been close to anything like it before."
Nneka nodded knowingly, smoothed a hand over Isobel's, the rich umber tone of her skin contrasting against the paleness of Isobel's own. "It's the important things that scare us most," she said, "and that's why they matter. Why this matters."
The door to the mayor's office whisked open, interrupting them, and a man stepped out. Dark hair waved from an angular face. Younger than she would have expected for a mayor the city. Clean-shaven and not perfect in its shape but no less compelling than his deep-set eyes which fell to her first, and Nneka second.
"Ladies," he said, inclining his head in greeting. "The mayor is ready for you."
Oh, Isobel realized. Not the mayor.
Nneka patted her thigh encouragingly. "Let's go."
Isobel hooked her purse over her shoulder, a hard-shelled blue metallic snake-skin clutch, and popped easily out of her seat, surprising considering her legs felt heavy, bones weak and her feet hummed with the prickle of pins and needles.
The man held the door open with a stretch of his arm and as Isobel brushed past him she caught his scent: woodsy and citrus.
The office itself wasn't overly large, but elegantly situated with antique desk, armoire and side tables. All polished and gleaming against carpeted floors, charcoal walls and brass accents.
The blinds drawn on the large windows overlooking the bustling city streets and facing them, arms crossed, was a short woman. Hair cut in a blunt wedge to her shoulders, broadened with padding.
At the sound of their entry she eased around, slow in her movements and posture stiff as an army general in a skirt suit of politician blue. Her silk blouse was buttoned high and a rope of pearls draped around her throat.
"Afternoon, ladies. Please have a seat." Instead of claiming the chairs by her austere desk, they all moved to the dual settees in emerald velvet and trimmed in gold pipping, flanked by long tables topped with arrangements of white flowers that eased the air of formality by the barest degree.
Brushing her hands over her thighs, Isobel wiped damp palms on her navy slacks complimented by a loose fitting white blouse with a collared neck and no buttons. She opted to wear no jewelry aside from gold twisted gold chain bracelet, simple black flats and a long neutral plaid trench, now draped over a coat hook near the door. The entire ensemble was clean, sophisticated but approachable. An outfit that evoked both confidence and competence.
Today she was going to need both.
"Would either of you care of something to drink?" Mayor Sterling asked, gesturing to the alcove to their left where a tray of coffee, cups and glass bottles of water were lined in waiting, which they both respectfully declined. "Well, then, let's get straight to business. This is William Villanueva, the Chief of Police."
William smiled warmly. "Welcome to New York. I'm sorry it had to be under these circumstances."
"Circumstances aside, we're happy to be here," Nneka said and crossed her legs. "Thank you for carving out the time to meet with us."
"It wasn't easy," William said, linking his hands loosely together in his lap. "But, it was imperative we discuss things before we determine whether or not we allow you to visit the site. I'm sure you can appreciate that the delicacy of this matter is paramount."
Isobel's heart hitched at his words and she struggled not to gape at Nneka who sat cool and entirely unrattled at her side.
Far as she'd been led to believe, the way had been paved clear for them this afternoon. How would it look to the studio and executives if her first time out the gate she came back empty handed? Her hopes and dreams for Passivist Activist would be dead in the water before they even got off the ground.
"We understand that," she pressed on. "All we need is an hour at the site. A simple walk-through and—"
"With all due respect," Mayor Sterling raised her hand, interceding, "this isn't so simple. The city is a raw, throbbing wound of grief and what your proposing has the potential to rub salt in it if you're not careful. Respectful."
"You've seen our spot segments," Nneka said, "Isobel is the heart and soul of this movement. There isn't a journalist or new anchor alive who can do what she will as she live streams with our network audience through social media channels. So they can see, feel, touch and experience as she does."
"I'd have to disagree," William said, his voice softening but firm around the edges. "I don't think she can handle that kind of...carnage. Sure, there are no bodies littering the ground, but the scene is still a grizzly mess. Seasoned officers who've seen plenty in their tenure—grown men—walked out of there retching. One hundred and three dead, thirty-seven injured...this is the worst mass shooting in US history. What makes you think she's capable? I think we can all agree that this sort of extremism is not fit for such a young lady."
Though kindly meant, Isobel bristled under the implication. This was something she was growing infinitely exasperated by, the so called limitations of her gender. The weaker sex. Well, there was nothing weak about being a woman, and nothing unladylike about pursuing her passions and dreams—even if it involved getting dirty or breaking a nail. Or standing in the face of true terror.
Being ladylike meant a woman could do anything or be anything she 'liked'—and should, without justification or apology. To face the world and all its criticisms, head held high and shoulders drawn like a superhero as she shattered the Glass Ceiling.
Isobel flagged her hand before Nneka could speak. It was time for her to step up and shut this down.
"You're right—I've never faced this kind of devastation. And I am sure it will affect me deeply, profoundly. But that's the point. I am an unfiltered lens to show the truth. No script. No agenda other than honest emotion. Connection. Bringing viewers straight into the tragedy to move them beyond a simple like or share or tweet, but to prompt them into real action. Into immediacy. Hopefully by engaging with me live, in the moment." Isobel squared her gaze with William and let her sincerity resonate before she continued. "I'll walk through the place where so many people died. I'm a little scared, but I know how important this is—how important it could be, if we succeed. To show everyone the truth. To honour the dead. You question my capabilities? I can't pretend to know their limitations when they haven't been tested, but I'll be damned if I sit here and let you define them for me."
Though she kept her gaze planted firmly on William, Isobel was aware of Nneka folding her hands beneath her thighs as if to resist punching them victoriously in the air.
"Well, then," Mayor Sterling said after a bracing pause. "I think that settles that. The cars should be waiting for us downstairs. Shall we?"
As they prepared to leave, William set a hand to Isobel's arm, gently pulling her aside while Nneka and Mayor Sterling continued on ahead, too deep in conversation over the mayoral press conference to notice they weren't at their heels.
"I want to apologize," he said quickly, sensing her apprehension. "I wasn't—no, strike that, you're right. I overstepped and I'm sorry. I'm the eldest of five with four sisters. I've grown up feeling...protective. But that doesn't excuse my behaviour." A smile softened the hard edges of his face, lit his brown eyes. "Truth is, if my fiancée were here she'd've cut off my balls for what I'd said, but it's knee-jerk to want to shield you from what you're about to walk into."
"I appreciate the thought," Isobel said, leading into a slow walk so as not to fall too far behind the others. "But I can take care of myself. I've been doing it for a long time." Since I was seven, she thought, holding back the words. Since my mother walked away without a backwards glance and left me with my father—loving and well-meaning but without a clue in the world how to raise a girl on his own.
William brows lowered and fine lines she hadn't noticed before deepened around his mouth. "Then prepare yourself. It's going to be horrible."
#
He was wrong. So wrong. Horrible was too gentle a word to describe the gut-wrenching devastation. Everywhere Isobel turned, she could hear them. The echoes of the dying. The screams trapped within the bullet-riddled, bloodstained walls.
She'd spoken with survivors and families shattered by loss.
My baby died right here, a mother wept, standing shoulder to shoulder with Isobel in the bloodied ruin of a corner. She called me. I listened to her voice. Heard her screams and sobs. Right here.
All that pain had almost broken her, had worked deep within and turned her inside out. A knotted mess of feeling. Only one thing had helped hold her together, her Sisterhood. Even though they were so far part, so rooted in their own passions and pursuits, they were always with her, a part of her, and she'd drawn on their strength when her own had threatened to fail.
Clutching the bottle of water in her hands, she drank slowly, deeply. Washing the ache from her throat and willed her stomach to settle. Tucked away in a small, quiet room inside of New York City Hall, the press conference was about to start and she needed to hold herself together. The mayor would be the one speaking, but the cameras would undoubtedly look for her.
At the sound of the door opening, Isobel's head lifted just as Priya's face came into view, eyes wide and expression pained. William was at her back, his expression kind and knowing as he shut the door behind them, sealing them alone together.
"Hey." Priya dropped to her knees in front of Isobel and gathered her into a hard, bracing hug.
Isobel clung to her for a moment, silent, before pulling back. "You watched?"
Priya nodded, tears welling in her eyes and shifted into a seat next to her. "You were so brave, Bel."
She didn't feel brave. She felt broken. Brutalized. She'd wept for the last hour. Wept until she thought there weren't any tears left. But one more leaked out of her, scoring like acid down her cheek.
Isobel shook her head, dashed it away.
"There are no words. No words, Priya. To know that someone can commit this kind of violence for no reason other than pure hatred for anything different. How?" she wondered, "how can the issue of who you love ever be worth spilling blood? The colour of our skin or the religion we hold to our hearts—how is any of it worth such violence?"
At a loss, Priya smoothed a lock of hair behind Isobel's ear. "It was a wise man who'd said it best: that love is love is love is love is love, cannot be killed or swept aside...there will always be a few whom will try, but that is when we must stand together. The strength of many. The love of many. That is what you're doing, Bel. You're uniting us. A global Sisterhood."
Isobel's lips spread in a watery smile. "I love you."
"I love you, too," Priya whispered.