Archer Events was the event company for the New York elite, handling weddings, charity dinners, release parties, and a dozen other events the rich and famous could dream up. When I’d come out of college with my public relations degree from UCLA, Archer was at the top of my list. My résumé catered to their specific needs, my job through college—interning with event planners in Los Angeles—chosen so I could learn from the best of the West in order to get into the best of the East.

It had paid off. Caroline Archer hired me on the spot, impressed by my confidence and proficiency—and my white suit, which was the only expensive thing I owned, a splurge I couldn’t afford. Living in LA, the vast majority of my business casual came from H&M—between my wardrobe, my studio apartment in Culver City, and my ramen noodle budget, I was strapped for cash. Our clients in Beverly Hills said volumes with nothing more than a lingering, silent glance up the length of my body regardless of the fact that I merely filled coffee orders and answered phones.

For a full year, I scrimped and saved, shelling away birthday money from my parents, housesitting, dog walking—any side hustle I could get my hands on. And then I drove my little black Honda Civic to Rodeo Drive, walked into Armani, and bought a white pantsuit that cost almost four months of rent.

That suit, I was convinced, would be my ticket, the fulcrum of my success. I believed so wholly that if I had that suit, I could do anything, achieve everything. I could walk into Archer Events with my head high and back straight, feel their eyes on me as I passed. They would believe I was competent, capable. Someone to be respected.

And I’d manifested my destiny the day I walked into Caroline Archer’s office in my Armani suit and landed my dream job.

Wonder still struck me in unexpected moments, like today, as I walked through the glass doors of Archer’s offices, which resided on the forty-fifth floor of a towering building in Midtown. Shades of pink and creams colored every wall, set off by touches of gold and the occasional pop of navy. The offices were feminine and classic, somehow both soothing and crisp, welcoming and elegant, rich and luxurious.

The front desk was an opaline tiled affair with Caroline’s logo—a silhouette of the Greek goddess Artemis, crescent bow drawn taut, her eyes on the sky—shining and gold on its front. Two receptionists sat behind in matching navy suits, headsets on and smiles in place.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Parker,” Juliet said, standing. “Ms. Lane requested you come straight to her office.”

I stifled a sigh, locked it painfully in my lungs against its will. With a thin smile, I thanked her.

Her dark eyes were full of apology.