The Struggle •Unedited•

Chapter 32

•Elisabeth•

As soon as I walked in the company building, the whole place is bustling with working employees. Hesitantly, I made my way over to the receptionist desk placed in the center of the humungous lobby.

"Excuse me?" I peep.

The receptionist looked up from her computer screen, "Yes? Welcome to LH Imaging, how may I help you?"

Her Australian accent threw me off and it took me a couple of seconds to regenerate my thoughts.

"Uhm, what floor is Niall Horan located in? I have something that I need to drop off, if that's okay?"

"Alright, uhm, let me check for you. Wait just a sec," she hummed as she began to type some information onto the keyboard, "Aha," her eyes move back to me, "He's on the seventh floor. Go on ahead. Elevators are to your right,"

"Thank you," I smile.

As I wait for the elevator to come down, I see a group of construction workers arguing over a blue print just a few feet away.

So is the new owner remodeling or something?

Ding!

I snapped out of my irrelevant thoughts and waltzed right between the opening doors. Lighting up the '7' button, the door dinged close and soothing elevator music eased my ride up. Fortunately, my ride was uninterrupted, making the trip only last a few seconds.

When the elevator reveled the atmosphere, it seemed even more hectic than the first floor downstairs. At this point, I was on my own looking for Niall and I had no idea where I was going.

Seeping out of the moving box, I glance around looking for some sort of clue, but I was oblivious to where the hell I was going. I turned right and I was greeted with more continuous halls, people rushing around with loads of paperwork piled in there hands.

This place seems so unorganized and its driving me insane. How can someone work like this? Shit, if I thought the New York Time's office was confusing, I obviously haven't seen this whole building.

Everything looks the same as I wander through various rooms and corridors, and people are eying me as if they already know that I don't belong here.

Abruptly, I feel my body crash into someone else, making me loose my footing and stumble.

"Hey! Watch it, intern!" Some guy hisses as he shoves me into a wall, "Watch where you're going!"

Catching myself with the palms of my hands before my face could come into contact with the hard surface, I growl. "Fuck you, asshole!"

But he pays no attention to my insult and he continues to resume his previous path.

"Intern, my ass," I huff, straightening myself up, "I happen to be one of the best writers at NYT, thank you very much!"

"Hey!" I hear someone else shout.

Frantically, I look around wondering if they happen to be calling for my attention, but I see no one is sight who happens to be looking at me.

"Hey! You!" She calls out again, "Who are you and why aren't you in uniform?"

When I do a 180 turn, I detect a woman marching on over to me with a stern look on her face. So she was talking to me.

"Uhh," I stutter.

The woman's, who is probably around my age, brunette hair was waved down her shoulders and her body was dressed in a form fitting red, skirt suit that hand a white linen dress shirt under its blazer. To be honest, she rocked the look.