The next morning I am jolted awake by cacophonous pounding on my bedroom door.
"Florence Blackwell! If you don't get out of bed immediately, you are going to be late!" my mother's voice rang.
I rolled over to look at my alarm clock and groaned- 7:53 AM and I had to be at Styles Corporation at nine. I need to get the hell out of this internship. Figuring being late is the first step towards this goal, I closed my eyes.
Ten minutes later, my father burst into my room. I think he is yelling or some shit. Honestly, I could care less. I eventually dragged myself out of my warm comforter to get dressed.
After brushing my teeth, doing my makeup, and settling with having my long chestnut hair in waves. I look through my myriad of potential work attire. I decide that I need to try on many different outfits to get 'the perfect look'. Might as well look my best on my first, and last, day, I thought with a smirk. Numerous articles of clothing are distributed around the large expanse of my bedroom by the time I am done. I look hot to be honest.
My mauve pencil skirt fell just above my knee, and the low scoop of my dark grey camisole showed off a little bit of cleavage, without me looking like a slut. I paired the ensemble with a red beaded necklace, suede grey pumps, and a light-grey Yves Saint Laurent blazer.
I headed down the steps and entered my kitchen, a glass of orange juice and a slice of toast were waiting for me on the glass dining table. I took a bite of the toast and didn't give the orange juice a second thought. My father approached me with a frustrated look on his face.
"Flora," he starts, his annoyed tone completely contradicting his use of my old nickname. "Drop the toast right now and go, you'll be late enough as it is."
The clock above the oven read 8:45. Perfect.
"Ugh. Alright, Nick. Have a nice fucking day while I'm in hell."
"Language!" I heard my mother shriek from the living room. Haven't we been through this before?
My father didn't reply, he just gave me an icy stare as I stalked out the door, grabbing my keys and purse. The engine of my white BMW Beamer roared to life, and I was off.
The nearest Starbucks was just at the edge of downtown, so I decided to stop by to get coffee. Like my father said, I was already late so what did it matter how late I got?
"Can I help who's next?" an eager barista called when it was my turn in line.
"Yeah, eh can I have a vanilla latte with a shot of caramel creamer? Actually make that two lattes." Oh, my new boss is going to love me.
I paid for the coffee, grabbed the cups and left. My watch read 9:12. Twelve minutes late already and I haven't even dealt with the traffic lining up and down Michigan Avenue.
God, I love Chicago. I've lived in many large cities across the globe, but there is something about Chicago that I adore so much.
The drive down Michigan Ave. took me ten minutes until I saw it, Styles Corporation. The building's windows looked blue from the reflection of the water down below. It used to be known as Trump International, until Styles bought the building out, making the billionaire look like a fool. Now, instead of the blocked letters 'TRUMP' on the outside, it read 'Styles'.
Using the signs surrounding the building, I managed to navigate my way to a parking spot. I entered the building, coffee in hand, and I must say, I'm impressed. Marble floors, a modern looking sitting area, and the receptionist's desk was made entirely out of granite.
Very chic.
"Excuse me," I said as I tapped on the receptionists desk. "Florence Blackwell, I am an intern for a, uh, Mr. Styles. What level do I need to be on?"
