"𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥."
-
𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐈 𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐒 , a 26 year old fashion designer and the younger sister of the official bridezilla of the season. A young lady who left her homet...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE NOISE OF THE AIR conditioning roared throughout her studio as the darkskined woman leaned over her cluttered desk, the soft glow of the morning sun filtering through the windows of her Manhattan studio.
Sketches of flowing gowns and avant-garde designs were scattered haphazardly across the surface, each one a testament to her tireless dedication and passion for fashion.
The rhythmic hum of sewing machines and the occasional clink of tools being shuffled added to the ambiance of creative chaos that enveloped her workspace.
She swore it was only 9 AM until she glanced at her MacBook and read the time; 2:34 PM. Leaning back in her chair, rushing footsteps crowded the almost- empty studio as Danielle rushed into the room.
"Ms. Hicks, I'm sorry to bother you-"
"Symone. You don't have to call me Ms. Hicks, Dani. It makes me feel old," Symone's voice boomed through the room, dropping her mechanical pencil on the thick paper of her sketchbook.
"Right! Um, there's a customer downstairs that asked for a manager. But, I know that we don't do that but they insisted for me to come and get someone in charge." Danielle fiddled with her pastel pink nails while speaking.
Letting out a frustrating sigh, Symone pushed herself from her white wool chair and slipped her work shoes back on. Symone glanced at her unfinished sketches, a pang of irritation flashing across her features. Another interruption. She couldn't afford to lose any more time, especially with the deadline for her new collection looming closer.
"Alright, Dani. Lead the way," Symone replied, her tone resigned yet professional. She straightened her tailored blazer and smoothed down the fabric of her sleek pencil skirt, projecting an air of calm authority despite her internal frustration.
Danielle hurriedly led Symone down the polished corridors of the studio. The clicking of their heels echoed against the hardwood floors, blending with the rhythmic hum of sewing machines and the soft chatter of seamstresses immersed in their work.
As they descended the staircase to the ground floor, Symone mentally prepared herself for the encounter with the demanding customer. It wasn't unusual for clients to request special attention, but she prided herself on maintaining a sense of professionalism and grace in every interaction.
They reached the reception area, where a young woman- looked around late twenties, early thirties, stood with her arms crossed across her chest and a slight embarrassed little girl next to her.
"Hi, I was told you needed to see a manager?" Symone's demeanor was kept professional and not to show that she was irritated of coming down to speak with customers that do nothing but complain.
"Yes, absolutely," replied the young woman, her voice a mix of frustration and embarrassment. "We've been waiting for nearly an hour for someone to address our issue."
