Morning 7:12 AM - F Line Subway
Emma Brooks stood crammed in the subway car, her fingertips gripping a cherry - red lipstick like a lifeline. The train screeched against the tracks, a sound like nails scraping a chalkboard. She stared at her reflection in the window - chestnut curls frizzed from the morning crush, a coffee stain marring the sleeve of her light gray blazer. Damn it. She'd only taken one sip of her Americano that morning.
Double-check everything. Her phone screen glared back with a schedule reminder like a whip crack: 8:00AM - Morning meeting, new creative director's debut. Emma inhaled sharply, twisted open the lipstick, and braced herself to reapply in the rattling carriage. The subway lurched suddenly; her wrist jolted forward - lipstick slashed past her lip, streaking her cheek in a vivid arc.
Snickers rippled through the crowd. Heat flooded her ears, scalding enough to fry an egg. She scrubbed at the smear with her thumb, smearing it further. In that moment, her heart thudded like a slammed door inside her ribs.
Stay calm, Emma. Gritting her molars,she smeared the mess away. As the train pulled into the station, the crowd surged toward the exits. She stumbled, her heel stepping on a stranger's shoe. A disgruntled "Tch." shot past her. No time for apologies - she had to bolt from this sweat-and-perfume-packed sardine can. up to the office, to the meeting she wasn't ready for.
Morning 7:46AM - Starbucks Corner
Cold wind funneled down the underground passage as Emma shivered. Pushing through Starbucks' glass doors, she was met with warmth and the scent of roasted beans. The line snaked to the entrance. She glanced at her watch - thirteen munutes left. If she sprinted now, she might make it to the office before the meeting to swap her stained jacket.
"A grande Americano with oat milk, please." She fumbled her phone - 12% bettery left. The red low-power icon blinked like an alarm. Emma frowned, swiping into the company group chat: 99+ messages. Victoria had fired off three reminders:"Everyone, 8:00 AM sharp in Conference Room A."
As the barista handed over her coffee, whispers fluttered behind her:"Heard the new creative director's a hardass. Back from Paris." "Think he's hot? Name's Whitely, I think." Emma rolled her eyes internally - hotness won't cover overtime pay.
Outside, the cold bit again. Balancing the cup, she fumbled for MetroCard, jostling too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim, scalding her wrist. The dad stain bloomed on her sleeve like a ruined resume. Emma froze. Another slam of that imaginary door in her chest.
"Perfect. Just perfect." She laughed bitterly, voice low enough to vanish. Tilting her face to the gray Manhattan sky, the skyscrapers loomed like icon bars, trapping her in this relentless arena.
Morning 7:59 AM - Elevator, 38th Floor Verve Magazine
The elevator mirror reflected a disheveled but defiant woman. Emma dabbed at her sleeve with a napkin soaked in bottled water - useless. She retrieved a backup lipstick, aimed it at her lips in the mirror, then froze. Why was she still trying? To impress a boss she hadn't even met yet?