Page 11 of The Toy Collector

The interior smells like lemon wipes and too much air freshener, but I’m too keyed up to care. I smooth the front of my blouse, legs crossed at the ankles, tote bag tucked neatly by my feet.

I pull out my phone, skimming the company’s website one last time. I already know everything there is to find, just as I’ve memorized every name on their leadership team and every project they’ve touched in the last five years. Still, I scroll like I might’ve missed something. Like one more pass will settle my nerves.

My phone vibrates with an incoming text.

Lee: You’re gonna crush it. They’d be idiots not to snatch you up. Text me the second you’re out.

A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. I type back a quick promise to let her know, and slide the phone into my bag, fingers tightening briefly around the handles.

When we pull up to the firm’s building, I exhale slowly. Clean glass façade, neat lettering on brushed steel. No frills. Just quiet, self-important elegance.

“Thanks,” I tell the driver as I slide out, heels clicking confidently against the sidewalk. I straighten my shoulders, smooth my ponytail, and walk through the glass doors like I belong.

The lobby is modern but impersonal—white walls, polished floors, a receptionist desk built like an altar. A young woman looks up at my approach, her expression unreadable behind a pair of tortoiseshell glasses.

“Hi,” I say with a polite smile. “I’m Piper Harrington. I have an interview scheduled with Lauren Chase.”

She taps her keyboard, eyes flicking over her screen.

“Harrington…” She frowns slightly. “Right. Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

Her tone is clipped. Not rude, exactly—but not welcoming either. And I don’t miss the way her gaze slides down, cataloguing my outfit, my shoes, my confidence like she’s trying to slot me into a box.

I nod, but something twists in my stomach.

Still, I head to the waiting area and sit down. I’m prepared. I’m a professional. I’m ready.

As the minutes tick by, I wish I could take my phone out and text Lena. It might sound paranoid, but something isn’t right. Something feels off.

No one’s said anything overtly rude. But the smiles are too tight. The receptionist hasn’t looked at me once since telling me to wait. And now it’s been seventeen minutes past the scheduled time of my interview.

When the door finally opens, a woman in a sharp blazer and an expression to match steps out. She doesn’t offer her name. Doesn’t even greet me.

“Piper?”

I stand, smoothing the front of my blouse. “Yes. I’m Piper Harrington. Nice to meet you.” God, I sound like a rambling idiot.

She barely nods. “Follow me.”

Despite wanting to ask for her name, or hell, for her to look at me, I don’t. Nope, I behave like the good little interviewee I am, and follow her down a corridor that somehow manages to feel colder than the lobby.

I glance at the framed awards on the walls—accolades for innovation, strategy, thought leadership. But none of them matter when she’s already treating me like I don’t belong here.

The interview room is sterile; just a glass table, two chairs, and a notepad already filled with scribbles that she doesn’t offer to explain. She doesn’t even offer me water or anything to drink.

“So…” she says, sitting with a sigh, somehow managing to sound like I’m being problematic. “Tell me why you applied.”

I blink. “Umm, well, I’m a student in Political Communication and your firm has a reputation for impactful voter outreach campaigns, and I—”

“And what, exactly, do you think you can contribute?” she interrupts.

My breath catches. “I’ve worked on two midterm campaigns, focusing on digital messaging and demographic targeting. My thesis centers on reframing political narratives to increase youth engagement, and I—”

Her eyes are trained on her stupid notes while she scribbles something down. “That’s only theoretical.”

Grinding my teeth together, I sweetly say, “It’s research-based, but also applied. My goal—”

“We’re not really looking for theorists right now.”

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