Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
The hangers slip across the metal rod as I search through every single dress I have and then scope out Maggie’s clothes, too. Thankfully, she doesn’t mind sharing, and we’re not too far off size-wise, but her style is significantly more fashion-forward than my conservative wear.
Maggie and I met freshman year of college when we were assigned roommates. Despite our differences—who’d think a fashion marketing major and an economics major would be friends?—we became thick as thieves. We later chose to remain roommates, even after graduation, when she generously invited me to continue our arrangement. I pay a pro-rated amount that’s significantly less than what she and her supportive parents pay, but she still helps clean the bathroom every week, the same way I do.
Finally, I spot the perfect ensemble—a deep emerald-green blouse, paired with a tailored black pencil skirt. Not mine, unfortunately, but Maggie won’t mind sharing.
The green and black go perfectly with my long, black hair, giving me a professional and eye-catching look that’s entirely badass future executive.
I’ll look like not only do I belong there, but my presence is what’s been missing.
I quickly change into the outfit, feeling a surge of confidence as I smooth out the fabric over my thighs.
Checking out my backside, I smile. This is the one. I can feel it. “Next time we go out,” I tell my reflection, “remind me that Maggie’s drinks are on us.”
I’m just deciding on what purse to pair it with when my phone goes off. I glance, grinning as I see it’s a pair of group chat texts, one from Maggie and the other from our mutual friend, Ami.
You got this!
Yasssssss! You don’t need luck, you’re that damn good!
It’s both inspirational and eye-rolling, but they serve their purpose in making me smile. At that same moment, I see that Evan hasn’t messaged me yet, but we talked last night, where I wished him good luck before a business dinner of his own. Later, I asked how it went, but he didn’t respond.
He’s probably busy this morning, I tell myself as I take a steadying breath. I make a mental note to check in with him after the interview. He’ll want to know how it goes, and I want to hear about his dinner. I’m sure it went well for him. Failure isn’t something he’s familiar with. After all, he grew up in the Wall Street life.
With my outfit and makeup complete, I give myself one last look in the mirror, taking in the sophisticated image I've created. The nervousness still lingers, but I’ve hidden it away so deeply that it’s not visible. I won’t let something as flighty as butterflies hold me back.
Fake it ‘til you make it.
It’s probably not the best piece of cliché advice, but it’s worked in the past so I’m not messing with it.
I left a small town to come to the big city for school, made the most of that opportunity, and have worked damned hard to make a name for myself. I’ve hustled, doing side jobs to keep the bills paid while working an unpaid internship. I joined the right social groups and showed up at all the right events. I’ve outworked every other twenty-seven-year-old from London to Los Angeles and in the space between. I’ve got the education, the work experience, and the instincts to be more than just a paper pusher.
My goal? The stock market.
I’ve built my own portfolio doing day trading, and it’s a badge of honor that I’ve shoved in the face of every trading house that talks to me. I’ve outperformed not just the market, but the flagship funds and managers at all of the big firms for eight quarters straight. I’m ready to handle more. I’m ready to be more.
I’m ready to be the girl on the other end of the line when the head of some big wig association calls saying they need more money on their investments and asks how they can get an extra two percent.
And that’s a high bar to get over. A lot of it is all about who you know. I’ve done my own socializing and networking, making contacts and cultivating relationships, even though I could have short-circuited the process through Evan. He’s the kind of man who was born with not a silver spoon, but a platinum one in his mouth. He could pull strings and get me in front of the right people in a heartbeat.
But I don’t want him to. If I want to be taken seriously, I have to do this on my own… even if I fail. “The first step to success is failure,” I quote aloud. And I have done that. I’ve been on countless interviews already. I need this one to go differently, be better, and start my actual career.
Today’s interview is everything.