They both stare at me, waiting for my reaction. I tell myself to say something, to stand up for myself. But instead, I just nod in acquiescence and turn the edges of my mouth up into what I hope is at least some semblance of an assiduous smile—exactly what they want me to do. As if this is all my fault, my doing. As if I am taking full responsibility for their narrow view of what a future member of their team should look like.

Most girls like me, from the hood, from the other side of the Hudson, where the median household income is in the same bracket as the cost of a preloved Birkin, can’t afford to participate in a three-month unpaid internship. And of course, it was set up this way by design, to keep a certain demographic out, to keep the new hires white and well-bred with plenty of generational wealth to subsidize a full season of free labor.

I want to say all this to her. I should. But that would be like trying to put out fire with a jug of diesel. So I nod again, robotically, and go back downstairs to finish my assignment, head tucked, a low-frequency hum muting most of the sounds in the suite.

Once I’ve gotten the dress to the point where I have to squint to see where the rust-hued stain used to be, I tap the screen of my iPhone for the time. Nate’s plane should be landing in about an hour. I take an elevator back upstairs so I can grab my bag, and though I should probably check in with Chloé to remind her that I’m leaving early, which she approved over a week ago, I don’t because I’m sweaty and hurt and still a little salty. Also, I do not want to be held accountable for what comes out of my mouth while I’m in this state.

Before I head out the door, I stop into the bathroom to pop a few Advil to keep my cramps at bay and check to see if my face is still intact. I end up bumping into Vanessa from PR, who is on her way out, and she asks me to stop by later to pick up her personal dry cleaning. While this isn’t the first time this has happened, I can’t help but feel degraded, especially since she doesn’t even attempt to look up from her phone as she passes me. I politely tell her I can’t because I’m actually leaving the office now, but let her know that I can come back for it first thing Monday morning. She stops so fast, it’s like she’s collided with an invisible wall.

“Well, you can pick them up now, can’t you?” she asks, swinging around to face me.