How could I forget how much pressure they put on appearances here? A few months in Brooklyn have relaxed my standards to unacceptable levels of shabbiness it seems, given the sour expression on Emilia’s face. What a wonderful way to start the interview. Was Emilia forced to offer me the job despite her—almost certain—recommendation against it?

“So, Blair. How have you been?”

“Great, thank you.” But no thanks to you. “You?”

“Busy, as always.”

I think she meant, “Bitchy, as always.”

Emilia continues. “Tell me about your experience at this”—she stares at my CV and raises an eyebrow—“online hub you’ve been working at.”

I launch into a professional presentation of my achievements over the last few months. The regular beauty features I’ve established. The team of influencers I’ve put together. The sponsorships. The celebrity photoshoots and interviews… The more I talk, the more I surprise even myself at the amount of work I accomplished in such a short time. I basically built an entire fashion magazine from scratch. An awesome one.

Emilia lets me talk, her face a studiously unimpressed one. “That all sounds marvelous,” she comments when I’m finished. “Now, as I’m sure you remember, here at Évoque we operate on a high-end profile. As a Junior Editor, you’ll only be in charge of assisting more competent and experienced professionals.”

“So I wouldn’t be responsible for any project? Not even smaller features?”

“Never say never. We’re very open minded and it’s our desire to groom the next generation of leaders. So we encourage all employees to bring forward new ideas…”

Her rehearsed speech is dribbling with so much condescension, I can’t listen. I’m finally back on the thirty-eighth floor of this shiny Manhattan skyscraper, and I can’t seem to find a single good reason to be here and work with these people. It’s your dream, always has been. Yeah, but why? Why was it ever my dream to work at Évoque? Why come back? This company used me for years and then discarded me without a second thought. And all they’re offering now is another junior position with no real independence. One you would’ve killed for a short while ago. Only because I didn’t know better.

“So you encourage the people who work here to bring forward new ideas?” I challenge her.

“Of course, we do.”

“You mean like when the story about Maison Vanderbilt committing tax fraud was brought forward.”

Emilia’s nostrils flare. “Blair, in case you’ve forgotten we’re a fashion magazine, we don’t do investigative journalism. Now, I’m sure at this”—she waves one hand in the air dismissively—“online-whatever you’ve been working for, lines and roles were more… let’s say blurred, but—”

“Of the fifty-or-so papers under the umbrella of Northwestern Publishing, not a single one could’ve picked up the story?”