Chapter 6
The email notification chimed.
I slumped back in my chair, feeling like I'd just been pulled out of the water.
Ten minutes later, the project group chat was dead silent, like everyone had gone home for the day.
Five minutes after that, the department head messaged me privately. [Joanna, that email was way too blunt. Mr. Turner is pissed.]
I replied: [I know.]
[You better think about what this means. Emily's got people backing her, and Mr. Turner wouldn't put her in charge for no reason.]
[Yeah.]
[Then why are you still doing this?]
I looked at the photo of the old cinema in my sketchbook.
Years ago, when I was eighteen, I stood outside that cinema with my camera, taking a picture of the sign that was barely hanging on.
Back then, I had no clue about people having connections or anyone working behind the scenes. All I knew was, before they tore down the things I cared about, I just wanted to have a picture to remember them by.
I typed back: [My name's on this project too.]
The department head didn't reply.
That night, I dumped all my old stuff out across the floor.
My sketchbook, a polaroid photo, some faded magazines, competition certificates, a copy of my college acceptance letter, and a wish list so crumpled it looked like it had been through a war.
First line: [Throw my own art show before I turn thirty.]
Second line: [Buy myself a red dress.]
Third line: [Don't marry anyone who makes you shrink.]
I stared at that third line for ages.
The handwriting was all over the place, like eighteen-year-old me was reaching across twelve years just to jab me right in the forehead.
My phone buzzed beside me.
It was a message from Andrew.
It read: [I saw the email you sent to the project group.
[Now you're dragging me into this. Mr. Turner just came to me and asked if you're freaking out because of the wedding.]
Andrew and Philip knew each other.
When Brightview Creative first started out doing commercial exhibitions, they landed a project for one of the Lewis family's shopping centers.
Later, I met Andrew at an industry mixer. His family was in commercial real estate, and he handled brand partnerships. After we got together, he brought in two clients for Brightview.
All these years, I had always kept things strictly separate.
Work was work, and love was love.
But other people didn't see it that way.
I replied: [It was a work email.]
He replied almost instantly: [Joanna, don't back yourself into a corner.]
I stared at his message, and suddenly, I felt so tired.
He was always talking about the right path.
He said buying a house after marriage would be a huge burden, so I shouldn't insist on having my name on the deed.
He said his mom's health wasn't great, so the wedding should follow his family's traditions.
He said the company's connections were complicated, so I shouldn't risk falling out with the boss just over a name on a project.
He kept saying I'd run out of options.
But honestly, the more I listened to him, the more boxed in I felt—like my world was shrinking with every word.
I didn't reply.
That night, I hit play on the third recording.
Eighteen-year-old me whispered, "If you're feeling down when you turn thirty, don't force yourself to keep it together. Go eat some cake, take a shower, and get some sleep.
"You can yell at people tomorrow. We're not made of steel. It's totally fine to let yourself off the hook for one night."
I paused for a moment, then finally took the cake out of the fridge.
The cake was already a little squished.
I cut a piece and plopped down on the carpet to eat.
The frosting was so sweet it was almost too much.
Halfway through eating, I pulled out my phone and started searching for a red dress.
Back when I was eighteen, I promised myself I'd buy a super expensive red dress for my thirtieth birthday.
I scrolled through tons of options, and finally, I ordered one I never would've splurged on before.
After I paid, my phone buzzed with a spending alert.
I looked at the price and winced for three seconds.
Then I went back to eating my cake.
On the morning of the third day, Emily called me.
I'd just opened the package, and there it was—the red dress, lying in the box, even more eye-catching than in the pictures, like a flame that had just ignited.
My phone kept ringing for ages.
I hung the dress on the closet door before finally picking up.
Emily's voice had a hint of urgency.
She said, "Jo, the client bumped up their internal review. They need to see the new version at two this afternoon. The files you sent don't have the working files I can edit, so I'm stuck here and can't keep going."
I pulled back the curtains, and sunlight poured in, throwing the red dress's shadow across the floor.
"I sent over the approved files," I said.
"But Mr. Turner said you have the complete version," Emily pressed.
"The complete version has content that isn't cleared for use."
Emily paused, her voice going soft.
She said, "Jo, I get that this sucks for you. You've poured so much into this project, and suddenly they hand it over to me—anyone would feel upset. But I was just put on this. I wasn't trying to steal your work."
Her words were gentle, but there was a sting hidden underneath.
She continued, "I just want to do a good job here. The client already knows I'm taking over, and if we don't have anything to show today, we'll all be in a bind."
I used to dread hearing "we'll all be in a bind."
That line always made me jump in to cover for everyone, work overtime, and let my own limits slide without a second thought.
I walked over to my desk and flipped open the project contract.
"The client just wants to see the new direction today. The approved version is enough for the meeting. If you want to turn it into some trendy Instagrammable installation, you'll have to work out the new concept yourself," I said.
Emily's breath hitched. "Jo, we're on such a tight deadline. Are you seriously telling me to start from scratch?"
"When you took over the project, Mr. Turner must've checked that you could handle everything," I replied.