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You hurry into the office with the order of coffees haphazardly balancing in one hand. The other had a collection of a handful of every luxury fashion houses' latest fall collection for the test-run shoot this afternoon.
Working as an intern for Haute came with the ever-changing ups and downs that most entry-level positions have; you're subjected to coffee runs and basically answering phones from people who your boss has no intention of calling back personally. That's what the assistants are for, but that was neither here nor there at the moment.
Currently, the office is in a frenzy. Editors and fashion consultants alike were running around like headless chickens because the great Amelia Vanderbilt decided to scrap the army jacket fall shoot for something more elegant and chic. Amelia, being the iconic Editor in Chief for Haute magazine, was a household name in the fashion industry, and anyone who wants to succeed in this field won't question the genius that she is—even if it means spending another hundreds of thousands of dollars to reshoot the fall collection before the deadline.
"Are those the coffee orders that Amelia asked for ten minutes ago?" Jimin, the other intern you work alongside, asks with an impatient huff.
You narrow your eyes at him. At best, you and Jimin were work acquaintances who were battling for a full-time position at Haute. He's gunning for the style consultant position while you wanted to work more in the style journalism department. Regardless of both of your differences in careers, there's only one intern spot guaranteed a full-time position when all is said and done, and Amelia only ever grants it to the intern who actually impresses her.
"Listen here, Jimin," You remark, tone lilting with annoyance upon saying his name, "I've had to run all over this God forsaken city because there were garments that needed to be picked up from all of the luxury fashion houses. It's not my fault that Amelia trusts my fashion eye over yours." You finish with a huff.
Jimin stares at you with skepticism lingering in his eyes. You and him had a temperamental relationship. You both kept it professional, limiting your barbed words when others were around. But when alone, the both of you had free reign to use creative jabs toward one another.
He scoffs. "I'm sure a detailed list was given to you. Judging by your current outfit, I doubt style was something anyone in the office thought you were capable of picking."
You roll your eyes while pushing past him. You would've given him a curt shoulder-check, but you feared it would have interfered with your balance.
"While you were out taking a stroll through the streets of New York," He says dismissively, ignoring the way you scoff at his accusation, he continues with, "I got to sit in on today's meeting. It seems my creative eye is taking the claim of that open permanent position for Haute magazine."
