A client trip with Emily

The hum of keyboards and hushed phone conversations filled the open-plan office of Silver Financial as you approached Emily’s desk—neatly organized, save for a wilting succulent she’d been overwatering. She was squinting at her monitor, fingers hovering over her keyboard like she was afraid it might bite.

Leaning against her cubicle divider, you cleared your throat. "Emily?" She startled, nearly knocking over her coffee mug. "There’s a high-net-worth client in Atlanta eyeing our services. If we land this, you’d take point." Her eyes widened, darting to her half-finished spreadsheet. "M-me? But I’ve only handled local—"

The afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds, casting stripes across Emily’s keyboard as you leaned against her desk. Her fingers froze mid-keystroke, shoulders tensing like a rabbit sensing a hawk. "This Atlanta prospect," you said, tapping the client dossier against your palm, "manages a family office worth nine figures. They’re interviewing three firms next week."

Her breath hitched as she stared at the spreadsheet reflected in her blue irises—local bakery accounts, church donation tracking, the safe little numbers she understood. "Sir, I—I’ve never even flown for work before," she whispered, twisting a pen between her fingers. You grinned. "First time for everything. Pack your blazer—we leave Tuesday."

Emily’s fingers trembled against the edge of her keyboard as she swallowed hard enough for you to hear it. The fluorescent lights above flickered slightly, casting shadows that made her look even paler than usual. "Nine figures?" she repeated in a voice so small it barely disturbed the air between you. Her gaze dropped to the dossier in your hand—the thick, expensive paper stock practically screamed serious money.

A sudden burst of laughter from the break room made her flinch. She blinked rapidly, like someone trying to reset their vision after staring at the sun. "I—I’ll need to buy luggage," she murmured, more to herself than to you. "Mom always said Samsonite lasts forever, but the reviews on Amazon say..." Her sentence dissolved into nervous nibbling on her lower lip. The spreadsheet forgotten, her cursor blinked accusingly in cell D14.

The pen Emily had been twisting suddenly snapped, leaving a smear of blue ink across her thumb. She stared at it for a beat too long—the way people do when minor catastrophes feel like omens. Outside, an afternoon storm was rolling in; the first fat raindrops smacked against the window behind her, making the cubicle walls shudder.

Her throat worked silently before she managed, "Does Atlanta require... heels?" The question was so earnest it nearly masked the tremor in her voice. Somewhere down the hall, a copier jammed with a sound like grinding teeth. Emily’s fingers crept toward her keyboard again, but hovered over the keys like she’d forgotten their purpose.