Chapter 3
The two weeks leading up to the pitch turned their intern corner into a war room disguised as a desk cluster. Post-its multiplied like an invasive species. Melissa built three dashboards, two predictive models, and one color-coded chart that made Jenna feel personally judged. Jenna taped lipstick swatches to the wall in a gradient that looked like a sunset having an emotional breakdown. James, who had never met a crisis he couldn’t accessorize, started wearing glasses he didn’t need because he claimed they made him “look like a man with a plan.” They did. Unfortunately, the plan was mostly caffeine and optimism.
They met every night after work in different parts of the city, partly for inspiration and partly because Arthur Beauty had a way of making the office feel like it was slowly eating their souls. One night it was Washington Square Park, where spring had become late-spring and the air smelled like lilacs, weed, and hot pretzels. Another night it was a twenty-four-hour diner in Chelsea where the waitress called everyone “baby” with the authority of someone who had seen men propose and break up in the same booth. They argued about names, packaging, and whether the youth market wanted “authenticity” or “the illusion of authenticity, but prettier.”
“Gen Z can smell fake from six miles away,” Melissa insisted, tapping her spoon against her mug like a gavel.
Jenna rolled her eyes. “Gen Z also buys a $48 serum because someone cried on camera while holding it.”
James leaned back, twirling a fry between his fingers. “Both can be true. Humans are contradictory. That’s why dating exists.”
Melissa shot him a look. “Are you dating anyone?”
James blinked innocently. “I am… networking emotionally.”
Jenna snorted so hard she almost inhaled ketchup. “Networking emotionally is the most evil thing you’ve ever said.”
“It’s not evil if everyone benefits,” James said, and then his phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen and his expression did something small but noticeable—like a curtain twitching in a window. He angled the phone away as he typed.
Melissa noticed. Melissa always noticed.
Jenna noticed too, but Jenna noticed like a firefighter notices smoke: with suspicion and readiness to kick down a door.
“Who is that?” Jenna asked.
James smiled without showing teeth. “A friend.”
“That’s never just a friend,” Jenna said.
“It is when you’re gay,” James replied smoothly, and Jenna threw a crumpled napkin at him like she was trying to baptize him in truth.
By the time pitch day arrived, New York had committed to warmth. The city didn’t ease into summer—it lunged. Sidewalks steamed. Bodegas stacked mangoes outside like bait. Everyone on the subway looked one degree away from violence. Arthur Beauty Global responded by blasting the air conditioning so aggressively the interns began carrying sweaters as if preparing for an arctic expedition.
They walked into the executive conference room together, their nerves held together by mascara-level resilience. Andre sat at the head of the table, of course, wearing a slate suit and a calm expression like he had never once been intimidated by anything in his life. Around him were people with titles that sounded fictional: Chief Brand Architect, Director of Cultural Heat, VP of Glow Strategy. At the far end was Simone Vance, Andre’s executive assistant—tall, immaculate, and always watching like she was taking mental notes for a future trial.
James started the pitch because he had a voice people trusted. He began with a story about the first time he watched Andre’s videos in college and felt like confidence was something you could learn. He talked about the hunger in young consumers—not just for products, but for identity. While he spoke, he paced in a way that looked casual but had clearly been practiced in the mirror.
Melissa followed with data, because Melissa loved truth even when it was inconvenient. She explained that the youth market didn’t want full faces—they wanted transformation. One product that changed the mood of the entire day. She showed a chart correlating “breakup week” posts with lipstick sales spikes. She did not say the word “breakup week” without making it sound like a national holiday.
Jenna closed with the creative, because Jenna’s imagination ran hot and loud. She slapped her swatch board on the table like she was serving a warrant. “We call it SECOND SHIFT,” she declared. “Because it’s the face you put on after the day you were supposed to have. After the job interview, after the crying in the bathroom, after your ex texts ‘u up’ at 11:43 p.m. and you decide you’re up, but not for him.”
There was a beat of silence.
Andre’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. More like the beginning of one.
One of the VPs said, cautiously, “This is… surprisingly cohesive.”
Another one murmured, “Second Shift is… actually good.”
Simone Vance wrote something down without expression.
Andre leaned back in his chair, hands steepled, and studied them like they were a new formula he couldn’t quite categorize. The room held its breath. Even the city outside seemed to pause, skyscrapers shimmering in the heat.
Finally Andre said, “I like it.”
Melissa’s lungs forgot how to work.
Jenna’s grin flashed like a blade.
James tried to look cool and failed by being too cool.
Andre continued, “You’ve built a line that understands the moment. But if you want it—really want it—then you’ll help execute it. I’m giving you three limited access to the rollout.”
Jenna blinked. “Like… real access?”
“Like… don’t embarrass me,” Andre said.
James laughed, nervous. “No pressure.”
Andre stood. “All pressure.”
He started to leave, then paused at the door and turned back. His eyes landed on Jenna, then Melissa, then James—lingering a fraction too long, as if he were measuring them against something else.
“Welcome to summer,” he said, and walked out.
The moment the door clicked shut, the three of them stared at each other.
Melissa let out a sound that was half sob, half laugh. “We’re going to die.”
Jenna grabbed her by the shoulders. “We’re going to be famous.”
James lifted his badge like a toast. “We’re going to be insufferable.”
They celebrated at a rooftop bar in Williamsburg that smelled like sunscreen and ambition. The skyline looked like it had been designed by someone who hated humility. They clinked glasses. Jenna danced aggressively to a song she didn’t like out of principle. Melissa smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.
James flirted by accident.
It happened in the way it always happened to James: effortlessly, uninvited, and with collateral damage.
A guy at the bar—tall, kind eyes, interesting nose—kept glancing over. James, being James, glanced back. The guy came closer.
“Hi,” the guy said. “I’m Noah.”
James smiled. “James.”
Noah’s gaze dipped briefly to James’s mouth and came back up. “You look like you belong up here.”
James’s smile widened. “I do. But I’m still learning how to act like it.”
Noah laughed, soft. “Same.”
Melissa watched from a few feet away, sipping her drink like it was giving her life advice. Jenna leaned in close to her.
“You see that?” Jenna whispered.
Melissa nodded. “Yes. And I see the way James is pretending he doesn’t like him.”
Jenna scoffed. “James likes everyone. That’s his problem.”
Melissa sighed. “James wants everyone to like him. That’s his problem.”
On the dance floor, Jenna spotted someone she recognized: Luis Reyes, a product chemist with a reputation for being brilliant and annoyingly calm. He was leaning against the railing with a drink, watching the chaos like it was a documentary.
Jenna marched up to him. “You.”
Luis smiled mildly. “Me.”
“You told me my shade name ideas were ‘emotionally intense.’”
“They are,” Luis said. “But you’re not wrong.”
Jenna’s eyes narrowed. “Are you flirting with me?”
“I’m acknowledging you,” Luis replied, which somehow sounded like flirting in a lab coat.
Jenna leaned in. “Acknowledging me is dangerous.”
Luis held her gaze, unshaken. “So are you.”
Melissa watched that too, because Melissa’s romantic heart was basically a radar for tension. “Oh,” she whispered, like she’d just witnessed the first spark of a fire.
And then her own phone buzzed.
A text from a number she didn’t recognize: Loved your pitch. Coffee sometime? —E
Melissa frowned. “Who is E?”
Jenna glanced over. “E? Like… Evan? Ethan? Emotional Damage?”
James, still talking to Noah, looked over his shoulder and lifted an eyebrow. “E could be Andre.”
Melissa froze so hard she almost dropped her drink.
Jenna’s face lit up with malicious delight. “Oh my God. Melissa. Your boss is trying to date you.”
“No,” Melissa hissed, because the word no was the only thing she could say without combusting. “No, he’s not.”
James sauntered over, beautiful and smug. “Show us.”
Melissa, against her better judgment, showed them the text.
Jenna slapped a hand over her mouth. “I am going to throw up.”
James’s eyes flicked to the message again. His smile faltered, just briefly, before he replaced it with something lighter. “Okay,” he said carefully. “That could be… anyone.”
Melissa stared down at her phone, heart doing arithmetic she hadn’t authorized. “Why would he text me?”
Jenna leaned close, voice low and delighted. “Because you’re smart and cute and you don’t worship him. That’s basically catnip to men like that.”
James looked away toward the skyline, jaw tight. For the first time all night, he seemed… not entirely in control of his charm.
“James?” Melissa asked softly.
He snapped back into brightness. “What? Nothing. It’s cute. Go get coffee. Live your rom-com.”
Melissa swallowed. “My rom-com is going to get me fired.”
Jenna grinned. “Then make it worth it.”
Above them, the summer night stretched warm and infinite. Below them, the city continued being the city—loud, hungry, romantic in the way that hurricanes were romantic.
None of them saw Simone Vance across the rooftop, standing perfectly still near the exit, watching.
Not like someone watching interns celebrate.
Like someone watching a fuse burn.
