The Girl In Heels
Emily Carter believed in little joys—the kind that made ordinary mornings feel a bit like magic.
The click of her heels on the polished floor. The swirl of cream in her vanilla latte. The soft
shimmer of her peachy nail polish when sunlight hit just right. It wasn’t vanity—it was ritual. A
gentle way of telling the day, I’m ready for you. Let’s try to be kind to each other.
She stepped into the building’s glass lobby with her signature smile, balancing a box of almond
croissants and a tote that read “Don’t Quit Your Daydream.” The receptionist waved. The guard
by the elevator gave her a warm “Good morning, Miss Emily,” like he always did.
Up on the twelfth floor, the office buzzed with soft keyboard clicks, distant phone calls, and the
smell of way-too-strong coffee. A space meant for quiet professionals in navy suits and neutral
ties—until Emily breezed in like a walking Pinterest board.
Her desk, nestled near the PR department's open area, was a canvas of color-coded folders,
motivational stickers, and a tiny ceramic cactus with a smiling face. A jar of jellybeans stood by
the corner—refilled every Monday. People often stopped by for a quick sugar fix and ended up
staying longer, lured in by Emily’s warmth.
She liked it that way.
She wasn’t the boss. Wasn’t climbing any ladders in strategy or finance. Her title—Client
Experience Coordinator—was vague enough to let her do what she loved: make things better.
For people. For clients. For coworkers. From smoothing over awkward emails to organizing
monthly birthday lunches, Emily made the office feel more human.
She wasn’t blind to the occasional side-eyes from the more “serious” departments. She knew
some people thought she was too much. Too loud. Too sparkly. But the truth was—she’d tried
being quiet once. Tried shrinking herself to fit in. And it just didn’t stick.
Still, some mornings the silence after her cheerful greetings hurt more than she let on.
"Morning, Em" came Chloe’s voice, pulling her out of her thoughts. Her best friend strolled over in killer boots and a smirk, holding two takeaway lattes.
Emily grinned. “I knew you loved me.”
Chloe handed over the cup. “Always. But also, I need you to save me from a 10 a.m. crisis meeting. So if anyone asks, I’m in a conference call with our European partners. "
“Got it,” Emily said, already typing out a fake calendar block.
Chloe glanced at her earrings. “Are those... tiny flamingos?”
“Aren’t they adorable? They’re motivational. Like—stand on one leg, stay fabulous.”
“You’re an actual cartoon character,” Chloe muttered affectionately before heading back.
Emily sipped her coffee and turned to her screen, typing out a thank-you message to a client who’d sent over flowers last week. She added a GIF, then deleted it. Added it again. Removed it. Added it again. Removed it. Settled on a smiling emoji. Professional, but warm. The balance she walked every day.
She liked this part of her life. The in-between. Not the top, not the bottom. Just... the colorful thread that tied things together.
The office floor hummed with the same rhythms she’d grown used to—until it didn’t.
The elevator chimed.
And everything shifted.
He stepped out in his usual black suit, crisp and sharp as a blade. No tie today, but still very much put together. Nick Hunt. Director of Strategy. Walking contradiction. The man who could silence a room just by existing.
Emily didn’t know much about him—except that he was efficient to the point of mechanical,
allergic to small talk, and seemingly immune to any form of human warmth. Especially hers.
She once said good morning to him for ten days straight.
He didn’t say it back. Not once.
Still, she looked up as he passed, offering a soft, hopeful smile.
His eyes barely flicked in her direction. Just a blink. A pause.
Then gone.
And just like that, the room felt a few degrees colder.
Emily looked back at her screen, fingers hovering above the keyboard. Her smile didn’t
fade—she wouldn’t let it—but somewhere deep in her chest, something pinched.
She wasn’t sure what bothered her more.
That he never smiled back.
Or that she still wished he would.
