She provided us with a color story and samples for the direction she was going in to ensure that the lobby was consistent with the overall look of the hotel, but she gave us a lot of freedom and encouraged us to think outside the box. Basically, may the best woman win, and I fully intended to.

My competition, if you could even call her that, was Gwen Stevens. My hatred for Gwen ran deep. Just the sound of her name made me cringe. It was painfully obvious to everyone in the office that she got her position because of daddy’s money and connections rather than actual talent. She followed her lack of actual skill with a bitchy attitude and a complete disregard for the people around her. Her Botoxed, overly made-up face seemed to be fixed in a permanent sneer when Madeline wasn’t looking, earning her the nickname Bitchface.

I got to the office a bit earlier than usual so I could have some extra time to prepare for the presentation. I rounded the corner to my desk, set my bag down, and turned on my laptop.

“Coffee?”

I looked up to see Wiley thrusting a large cup toward me. Wiley was a textile designer working for the firm. We were famous for our exclusive prints and textiles, largely thanks to Wiley. She was unique, to say the least, bohemian, and artsy. She wore her dark brown hair in dreadlocks and her fingers were always stained with ink or paint.

“Thanks.” I smiled and took the cup from her long fingers that were already tinted green. In my hurry to get to the office, I left without making my coffee, a sure sign I was losing my mind. Wiley had just saved my life.

She rested a hip on the side of my desk, holding on to her own cup. “So, what’s new?”

I leaned back in my desk chair with my coffee and smiled up at her. “Not much. Just got invited to the Rags & Riches gala on Friday.” I shrugged and waited for her excitement to bubble to the surface.

“What? Madeline finally invited you? That’s amazing!” she cried, her eyes widening.

I set my coffee down on my desk. “No, Gwen is still going. The cow has her lips surgically attached to Madeline’s ass.” Madeline was invited every year to the gala, and I prayed for the chance to go as her guest. Unfortunately for me, that honor always went to Gwen, since her father, Senator Lawrence Stevens, was a member of the arts council who sponsored the event.

Wiley’s eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

“Drew got an invite. I’m his plus one,” I said, answering the question on her face.

“Oh, Gwen is not going to like that.” Her face turned sour.

“I’m not going to like what?”

I cringed and leaned over to look past Wiley to confirm it was her. Sure enough, there Gwen stood in all of her perfectly coiffed and surgically enhanced glory. Gwen sauntered over to her desk across from mine in her skin-tight pencil skirt and plunging V-neck sweater showing off the assets daddy bought for her eighteenth birthday. She stomped across the floor in her silver-tipped Prada heels so hard, I was shocked the thin stiletto didn’t snap.

I rolled my eyes and turned back to my computer. Wiley pushed off my desk and, with a sympathetic smile, she quickly shuffled back to her office in the basement.

Before Gwen could unleash her wrath on me, Madeline swept in to the room in her usual cloud of Chanel. “Good morning, ladies,” she sang with a bright smile.

Madeline was amazing, sharp as a tack and unbelievably talented. She had a classic elegance that commanded respect. I so wanted to be her when I grew up. She glided past us and into her office, shaking out of her cream blazer. Gwen practically sprinted to retrieve it from her before I could even reply to Madeline’s good morning. Kiss ass.

“Good morning, Ms. Grant,” Gwen and I said simultaneously, glaring at each other when Madeline’s back was turned.

“Ladies, are we ready to present your proposals for the Ashland?”

“Of course, Ms. Grant. Ready when you are,” Gwen replied with way too much enthusiasm.

“Fabulous. We will meet in the conference room at one. Are there any messages?”

I quickly jumped in, knowing Gwen hadn’t had a chance to check Madeline’s e-mails. “Your dress for the gala is ready to be picked up. Mr. Donovan asked to see samples of the stained glass for the window by the front staircase, so I sent him the sketches and color options.” I looked at my message pad, doing my best to stay professional while inwardly rolling my eyes. “And Senator Stevens is looking forward to seeing you Friday evening.”

“Daddy is so thoughtful.” Gwen beamed.

To her credit, Madeline ignored the comment completely. “Thank you, Ms. McCabe,” she said, taking the message slips I offered. Then she dismissed us with a wave of her hand.

Gwen stomped her way back to her desk. I swear, for someone who paid a lot of money to a personal trainer and more likely a plastic surgeon, you would think she could walk without sounding like a herd of stampeding elephants.

“So sorry you won’t be joining us Friday, Alex. It really is a shame you will miss the gala, again.” She smirked.

“Actually, I will be attending this year. I was invited by a friend.” I tried and failed not to sound smug. She stopped typing and gaped at me like my hair had suddenly burst into flames.

Alex: 1, Bitchface: 0

“Lucky you.” She sneered at me, pursing her overly plump lips.

Ping, ping. I picked up my phone.

Drew: What’s for dinner?

Alex: Got me, what’s in your fridge? Duck Sauce and Batteries?

Drew: No, smartass. What are YOU making me for dinner?

I smiled.

Alex: Quesadillas?

Drew: I’ll bring Jose!

I smiled to myself, thinking about the first night we spent with Jose.

When one o’clock came around, I was stuck on a conference call with a wallpaper wholesaler. Gwen beat me to the conference room and already had her boards and samples set up on the table. She grinned at me like she’d already won. I took a seat as Madeline breezed through the door.

“Okay, ladies, let’s see what you got.”

She took her seat at the table, signaling for Gwen to begin. I looked at her presentation boards. She went with what I assumed was a Moroccan theme with a gold leaf wall paper and deep purple drapes pooling on the floor. The whole concept was Arabia meets Moulin Rouge. All it needed was Ewan McGregor and an elephant in the corner.

Nope, I was wrong, she had the elephant.

I glanced at Madeline. Her elbow was resting on the table, fingers pressed to her pursed lips, her face blank and completely unreadable as she listened. It was difficult to tell what she was thinking as Gwen yammered on and on.

“Thank you, Ms. Stevens,” she said. “Ms. McCabe, I believe you are up.”

I took my place at the front of the room. “The Ashburn Family started their global empire with just a few fishing boats in the Florida Keys. As generations have passed, they have branched out, but I thought that a nod to their Southern coastal roots would be something they would love.”

I placed my boards on the easel in front of the room. The boards showed slow moving fans and plantation shutters, potted ferns framing the reception desk, and cool slate tiles with thatched rugs, all of which could be done for under the advised budget.

When I was finished, I studied Madeline’s face for her reaction, but her stoic expression remained. She got to her feet and paced back and forth. Then she examined each budget proposal again and felt the fabric samples. She spent what felt like hours considering the options. Finally, she came to a stop at the head of the table.

“You both did a fantastic job, but I believe, for this project, Ms. McCabe’s plan is the best approach.” She smiled at me. “Ms. McCabe, you can present to the board next week.”