I'm late!
How could I be late—today of all days?
My name is Lily Morgan. I'm 22—soon to be 23.
I live downtown in Agass with my mom and siblings, and I'm the eldest. My dad died when I was eight, Ivy—my younger sister—was four then, and Ethan, our last born, was only six months old.
I remember the day he died clearly, like it was just yesterday. Mom was in the kitchen making dinner. Ethan was in his crib, mumbling rubbish as he played with his toys.
I was sitting on the front steps of the house with Ivy, waiting for our dad and the goodies he always brought. I smiled, remembering how Ivy and I kept making guesses about what we might get that night.
Or might not.
Instead of Dad's car pulling into the driveway, it was the cops.
Mom noticed the police vehicle parked in front of our house and came out the front door holding Ethan in her arms, her face filled with concern.
The men in black uniforms approached Mom and delivered the most painful news of our lives.
Dad was gone.
His car had been hit on his way home by a truck whose driver had lost control of the brakes. By the time the ambulance arrived, Dad was already dead. The truck driver, on the other hand, got away with just a couple of broken legs.
I remember wishing the roles were reversed—Dad with the broken legs, but alive... and the driver, well…
Don't blame an eight-year-old.
Mom was the most affected by Dad's death. She stopped humming in the kitchen. The framed photo of Dad on the mantel disappeared. Some mornings, she forgot to comb her hair. And for a whole week, she burned dinner without flinching.
But she quickly patched herself up. For our sake, I guess.
Ivy and I, on the other hand, were just sad we weren't going to see our dad again—except when we went to heaven too. No more goodies. No more bedtime stories in that husky, funny tone he always used. No more dramatic entrances when he came to wake us for breakfast.
Gone.
He was gone.
Mom refused to remarry, saying she wasn't ready yet—which was a lie. I knew it was because Dad had taken the key to her heart, and she couldn't bring herself to break the lock.
Instead, she got a job at a private law firm. The pay wasn't much, but it was enough to put food on the table, pay the bills, and keep us in school.
Late! I can't be late.
Snapped back to the present by my alarm, I rushed to the bathroom, washed my face, and brushed my teeth again.
How did I let this happen?
It was 12:30 p.m., and I'd spent the morning scrolling through my social media accounts looking for interesting news or gossip. I didn't have many friends, and the few I did barely talked to me after college graduation.
Out of boredom—and the fact that there was nothing interesting—I decided to check my mail.
I always check my mail first thing in the morning.
But not today.
I'd applied for like eight jobs and was also expecting a recommendation letter from my college. Out of all eight applications, I got a response from just one—and it happened to be the one I wasn't expecting.
King's Estates.
One of the most successful companies in Kingsland. Adam King, a multibillionaire and the founder of King's Estates, was a strict and feared businessman who took business very seriously. Eventually, he passed the company down to his son, Michael King—who was just like him. Michael also passed it down to his son.
Richard King.
And so, the traits followed: strict.
Maybe even worse.
But just like the witch's cottage made of candy, the King family was blessed with beauty.
Done combing my hair, I dashed to my bedroom closet, searching for something corporate.
12:40 p.m.
I'm not going to make it.
Out of luck, I ran to Ivy's room—our model and fashionista. Scanning through the collection of clothes in her wardrobe, I barely found anything corporate.
Crop top.
Leather jacket.
Bum shorts.
Office pant—yes!
Grabbing the office pants, I checked for a matching top or jacket but couldn't find one.
12:47 p.m.
"Hey, Vy?" I yelled. She was in the bathroom, putting on her makeup.
"Got any top to go with this slack of yours?" I moved toward the bathroom door to show her the pants.
12:50 p.m.
"Oh, those are Mom's. I borrowed them for a play we had in school. The top is in her closet, but I don't think it'll suit you well," she said, turning to face me after applying her mascara.
"Why don't you wear the cream-colored shirt you got from the mall last month, and pick a jacket from Mom's?"
Like I said—our fashionista.
12:56 p.m.
Following Ivy's advice, I sprang into action. First, I headed to Mom's closet and picked up a jacket. She wasn't in her room, so I guessed she was in the kitchen downstairs.
Then I rushed back to my room and collected the cream shirt that had been lying untouched since I bought it.
I picked it when I followed Ivy to the mall. It had caught my eye as it was displayed on the mannequin. It was a silk, cream-colored shirt with long sleeves and glass gem buttons that looked like diamonds. I barely went out and didn't really need new clothes, but I bought it anyway.
If I had known I'd be wearing it for a meeting in a month, I would've bought matching slacks.
1:00 p.m.
My alarm rang again. I'd set it to go off every hour since I saw the email.
My recommendation letter.
Just last week, I'd received an email from King's Estates stating their requirements—one of which was a recommendation letter from my college.
Strict businessmen.
I was to submit the full documentation today before 2:00 p.m. for review.
I immediately contacted the school admin about the letter, and he replied with a non-promising:
"We'll get back to you, Miss Morgan."
I called again three days later to remind them and was told to keep checking my email.
That's how my daily morning routine of checking my inbox started.
Eventually, I gave up hope. Just a day to the deadline, and still no letter.
Mom kept checking my inbox every night before bed. Ivy left sticky notes on my mirror:
"It's coming today."
I, on the other hand, had already buried the dream beneath my pile of unfolded laundry.
If I didn't get it by that night, I knew I'd have to kiss King's Estates goodbye.
And that was why I didn't check my email this morning like I usually did.
And why I didn't see the email had arrived early this morning.
And why I'm running late right now.
Fully dressed, I stood in front of the big mirror hanging beside my bed, near my nightstand. Staring back at me was a soon-to-be 23-year-old woman with long black hair, hazel eyes, and small lips. Even without makeup, I looked smart and beautiful.
Grabbing my bag and the already printed copy of the recommendation letter, I glanced at my phone.
1:20 p.m.
Forty minutes to reach the company.
"You look amazing," Ivy said first.
And when she says you look good, it means you look good.
But she said amazing—and that means "OMG, I'm rendered speechless by your beauty."
"Wow, Lil, you look stunning."
That was Mom's turn to compliment me, her eyes warm and proud.
"Thanks, Mom. And thank you too, Ivy, for the idea," I said, walking toward the kitchen where they were seated, eating lunch.
They were eating my favorite—pasta.
And for a second, I really wanted a plate too.
1:29 p.m.
Sadly, I tore my eyes away from the food and looked at Mom.
"I'll be going now. See you guys later—and wish me luck.
"Good luck. Break a leg," Mom and Ivy replied in unison.
And with that, I left home.