Imposter Syndrome

Apennines

The next morning, Gary greeted her from his tapestry in the waiting room, hoof upward, motioning toward her desk. "Ambassador's luncheon with the reps," he called out as she groaned low. Country club chic? She was not a fan of such frivolity, if it was anything like the vestiges of her childhood. Hours upon hours spent scouring discount store racks for on-label merchandise at reduced prices, impressing snooty, self-centered people, spending time talking about topics she didn't care about.

"It's your job as ambassador," he called after her retreating figure.

A couple hours later, she found herself at the Founding Ladies' Foundation, hosting a tea social, the nearby wall decorated in a veritable pinned pyramid of red-and-white inscribed porcelain.

Watercress sandwiches. Egg salad. Bilberry scones.

"Oh, it's so nice to meet you!" she called out, for possibly the twentieth time that hour. Granted, it didn't seem so hard hosting, given that all necessary resources were at her disposal, pre-prepared and whatnot, plus the ladies present seemed to hang on every word of how she came to be on her own career journey, finding her path after a dream job gone sour.

Who knew there were so many young female empaths?

Apparently there were, if today were any indication. Bright, cheery, ambitious. They all seemed to have an idea of what they wanted out of life, who they wanted to be, and what they wanted to become.

But her—Sofie?

No clue. No mentor. And here she was, acting as one, in a sense. Why are these women paying attention to me? I have literally no idea what I'm doing—

As one camera flash went off, then another, temporarily blinding her as she blinked rapidly. She never felt particularly photogenic either.

How did I end up here again?

After her closing remarks, the tea social ended. Thank goodness for the crew, she told herself as she made to depart. They would be the ones cleaning up and setting up for whatever event came next. But she didn't stick around to find out, instead traipsing outside to the cobblestone sidewalk, where it had already begun to rain.

Circular red tables and heating lamps decorated the repurposed alley, while string lights hung overhead, artfully draped along storefront corridors, each sandwiched together in a single bloc. After a few more raindrops hit her smack dab in the forehead, she ducked into a shadowed awning, opting to flicker forth to her familiar Florentine office, with its rose-rust walls and a certain unicorn by the name of Gary.

"Ahem—"

She turned toward the tapestry. Gary. "What is it?" she asked, her head tilted in askance. What now?

"You had a visitor—" Without staying to hear the rest of the sentence, Sofie swept into the nearby living room, kitchen, bedroom too—before returning.

"I don't see anyone—"

"I was speaking in the past tense—"

She sighed. It was probably another assistant-to-an-assistant, asking for her thoughts on the latest empath policy piece. "What did she want? And which company?"

He shook his head, his silvery-white mane flowing forth. "It was a he, not a she."

Frowning, Sofie glanced around the waiting area, hoping for some clue as to the visitor's whereabouts. "What's his name then?" Weird. Empath groups were typically female-oriented, though men were certainly welcome.

The unicorn paused. "His name rhymed with...Marlow? Yes, Marlow!" as her mouth dropped in surprise.

"Karlo?" she all but whispered. Could it be?

"That's it—Karlo!" exclaimed Gary. "I was never one for remembering names. Especially masculine ones—"

"Did you see where he went?"

The unicorn shook his head. "Saw him at the entrance, he knocked, didn't linger. Left a note though—" he nodded toward the waiting area's table, where a single slip of paper lay.

Meet me at the Apennines at midnight. The bridge.

The next moment, her mind was abuzz. Doing her internet research, she realized the Apennines were a mountainous range with a scenic lake, plus a new art installation in the form of a bridge. It had to be there.

As a matter of practicality, she took the rest of the afternoon off without telling a single soul, let alone Gary himself, getting her beauty rest in her bedroom so she would be wide awake once the sun set. And several hours later, she awoke, refreshed, ready to reclaim a part of her life she'd buried some time ago, in a different country entirely.

What does one wear, reuniting with one's love?

She checked her drawers for elegant outfits but frowned. This being outdoors and on a hillside, she had to dress practically. Less Givenchy gown, more...gym-chic. Cropped pants, a stylish headband, a sweater, a jacket? The choice of dress was one she was unaccustomed to making with regards to her personal life as of late. Sure, it was easy to choose an ensemble for a business gala or yet another luncheon, but reunions left her clueless. This reunion, in particular.

But deep down, Sofie sensed that no matter what she wore, he would just be glad to see her once more. Despite her own hang-ups about not dressing formally enough—or too formal—or whatever. Closing her eyes, breathing in and out, she hoped her instincts were right. Checking the time, she realized the had less than an hour.

Here goes nothing—

She imagined rose-rust walls falling away into the ether, only to be replaced by mountainous breeze, a lake, a bridge—illusorily delicate yet resilient all the while. A moon, bright and bold, its reflection dancing across the rippled lake hundreds of feet below. Stars, glittering in the indigo sky, the horizon still laced with hints of damask pink.

Opening her eyes, her feet landed upon—she looked closer—the beginnings of—a bridge.

You can do this. He remembers you—

Each step forward brought forth a renewed sense of hope within her, for beautiful, bright beginnings, of burgeoning, blessed tomorrows. Please—she told herself—please let this—him—us—be real.

Please—

Once she had walked to the center of the bridge, she sat, facing the moon in all its sublime transcendence, noting the elegant tealights that had marked her path, keeping her from falling astray.

Fifteen minutes—

She practiced her breathing exercises. In. And out. Out. And in. He told you to meet him here. It's too beautiful here, to break someone's heart. Right?

Right?

This was, she knew, a far cry from the lady—the girl—she had been those months upon months ago. The one who had taken a job out of desperation and power for what soon became her nemesis, essentially becoming a trained magical mercenary, ridding the world of magic. A change of heart later, and introduction to the Goddess League, and—

And then—

She felt a tap on her shoulder, as she inhaled sharply. Could it be? She swiveled around to find a familiar gentleman with dark curly hair, a sweetly shy smile, himself too, donned in sports chic clothing.

And then came Karlo.