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Today was the best day of my life!
After over a year of being at everyone’s beck and call at NYC Fashion, my hard work has finally paid off. When I was called into the editor’s office, I was expecting the worst. I was a literally shaking in my thrifted (but still designer) boots. The editor, Karen, praised my natural instincts and discerning eye for detail. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there spouting gracious thank-yous like a broken record.
Then, like a freaking fairytale, Karen waved her magic editors wand and promoted me to Style Coordinator! That was my dream job. I’d be in charge of finding the chicest items of the season in our sample closet for models, gift lists, and style guides. I was made for that job.
I almost hugged Karen on the spot but I stopped myself. I should at least try to keep it professional.
Finishing my last official day as an intern for that power-crazy bitch, Lacy, was one of the hardest things I’d done. She was after the Style Coordinator job too. She was pissed that I got it instead. But not even her snide comments could bring me down.
When I left work, I stopped to pick up a bottle of wine from the corner store. The bougie one, not the one that smells like a public toilet.
Once I get home, I’m ordering a special meal from my favorite restaurant. Tonight, I’m going all out.
I have my dream job and a stellar bottle of wine. Now it’s time to celebrate with my perfect boyfriend, Peter Caldwell.
We’d been living together for over a year and together for nearly three. He’s the one. I’m sure of it. Our relationship is something most people only dream about. He’s an investment banker with a gorgeous face who enjoys treating me like a princess. He spoils me with tropical vacations, shopping sprees, and gourmet restaurant dates. I don’t know what I’d do without him.
Not to totally jinx myself, but I sense a proposal coming around the corner any minute now. My friend at Tiffany’s told me she’s seen him snooping around the ring section.
My hands tremble with excitement as I unlock the apartment door.
“Peter, guess what?” I squeal when I get inside. Peter’s not in the living room, but I hear noises coming from the bedroom. It sounds like…
The excitement drains from my body and is replaced with cold dread.
There’s clothing on the floor. Women’s clothing. A slinky black dress and a cherry red thong. A pair of knockoff manolo blahniks have been left halfway between the pile of clothing and the bedroom door.
I make my way to the bedroom door and slowly push it open. My hands are shaking again, but for an entirely different reason.
Peter’s in our bed thrusting into a mess of squealing blonde hair in cheap lingerie.
I stand frozen in the doorway. I don’t know what to do.
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