Sonder {COMPLETED}

II.

onika tanya.
september 4th.
nyc.

"Let me see the pictures."

"Ms. Maraj, we aren't finished with the photoshoot."

I rolled my eyes, "What the fuck is up with everybody questioning me today? I didn't ask you anything so I don't expect anything but a yes ma'am. Show me the fucking pictures, damn."

Kayla—my faulty assistant—wrapped my robe around my body before I went over to see the pictures. I sat behind the camera as Dion flipped through pictures we'd just taken, hoping that I liked them. My silence was always scary for my team.

"These are... nice, but definitely not nice enough for Fashion Week," I sighed, rubbing my temples. "I say think outside the box for this one week, put me on top, make me ethereal for the public, make sure there isn't a single flaw that they can pick apart. And yet I keep getting the same, in the box, regular ass ideas. Do none of you know what creativity is? Damn."

He just kept flipping through the pictures, nervous, wanting me to like the next more than the last. I didn't actually like any of them. They all looked like something the general public would go on the internet and talk shit about. Fashion Week was for the critically acclaimed and if that wasn't me on September 9th, I would have a new team by the next day.

"We could finish the photoshoot ma'am."

I shook my head, irritated, "Take a damn break. Change the wardrobes. Change the lighting. Do whatever you gotta do 'cause right now, all of you are looking down the nose of unemployment."

I had to do everything around here. I guess having my name on the building meant I had to do all the work on the inside.

"Ms. Maraj, Alain Wertheimer is on line two."

Now that was something to smile about. I dropped the robe and strutted to the elevator, passing my shoe department. That department was still in the works, and if my employees could get off their asses, it would be launching soon.

I was a business, period. There was no height that I wouldn't go to, to become the billionaire I was born to be.

I picked up the phone when I got to my office, greeting Alain with excitement, "Mr. Chairman, how nice is it to hear from you today."

"Much nicer to be calling."

"May I ask what prompted this beautiful reunion?"

"Ms. Maraj, out of all the years that we've known one another, I never would have thought I'd live to see the day that you chose Emilio Pucci over myself."

These old boys had a rivalry when it came down to my attention and to be seen on my arm publicly. When Fashion Week rolled around in different countries and cities, plenty of designers, owners, CEO's, and retired athletes were at my disposal, all ready to be picked.

"Do you want me to promise you a spot next to me next year and ruin the surprise of being picked? That's what you love."

"I won't live to see the day you choose me."

They loved me, loved everything that I stood for, loved that I was a powerhouse and I knew it. I was a prestige type of woman and I had proved it over and over and this was only the beginning.