The Feature

XI

Only a select group of Draft employees had ever set foot inside Ellen Ford's office. Mostly because she was never there, and when she was, she liked to be left alone. It made being inside feel like you'd entered a forbidden realm; a place you'd been invited into, yet somehow still felt unwelcome in.

You'd been sat for the past hour in what was no doubt a very expensive armchair; soft velvet, mustard yellow, not a stain or a mark in sight. You wondered if she had special people who came in just to clean it, or if she simply never had guests long enough to leave a blemish. The more you looked around, the more you realised it wasn't just the chair. In fact, the entire office felt unused; while it was beautifully decorated with expensive pieces, luxurious textures and pops of rich colours, the carpet - like the chair you were sitting in - almost seemed like it had never been touched, and the shelves around you were meticulously organised with every issue of the magazine since its launch in the late 90's.

Ellen was sat opposite you behind her desk with her glasses on the end of her nose, deep burgundy nails flicking through the pages of your final draft, silent. Your leg was bouncing restlessly in time to the clock on the wall, the loud ticking providing the only sound besides the occasional flip of a page in her hand.

You looked around, trying your best to never let your eyes fall on her, your gaze finally settling on the large floor-to-ceiling window; the darkening sky, city lights springing to life below. It wasn't raining anymore. In fact, it hadn't rained at all since you left Ben's house that morning. The universe had finally stopped sulking, and you smiled to yourself at the thought.

The sound of Ellen clearing her throat stole you back into focus. You turned your head to see her nodding slightly, placing the printed proof of your feature on her desk and glancing up at you over her glasses.

"This is good work," she said simply.

"Thank you," you replied with a relieved exhale.

"You have a very distinctive voice in your writing. It works well for a piece like this."

"Thank you."

"Most people get several weeks, if not months to write these things. So I appreciate your timeliness."

"Thank you," you said again, like a broken record, too taken aback to form any other words.

"How did you find it?" she asked, leaning back in her chair and pushing her glasses on top of her head.

"Th-the interview?"

"Mhm."

"It was... A joy, really."

"I hear you and Benedict got along well."

Your stomach turned slightly. Did she know? Surely she didn't know. She couldn't possibly know.

"We did," you finally said, fiddling with the turtleneck of your jumper, making sure it was still covering the marks he'd left on your skin. "He was very gracious and... forthcoming with me."

"That's good," she said plainly. "Well thank you. I'll have this rushed over to his team for approval."

You nodded and stood up quickly, wasting no time in making your way towards the door.

"Quinn..." she called out, her smooth, elegant voice bringing you to a sudden halt.

"Yes?"

"I was made aware of the... issue regarding my former Editorial Assistant Daniel Swain."

Your heart sank, a shiver crawling up your spine at the mere mention of his name.

"I don't need to know what happened," she continued. "I just want to assure you it's been dealt with, and I hope that can be the end of it."