After 6 years of university, another year of media training, and a job placement, you had finally scored a job at the House of Baroness as a publicity journalist. Fortunately enough, you realised pretty early on that this job wasn't all glitter and glamour, and that you were, in fact, in the pits.

You loved your job, of course you did, but interacting with the Baroness was like asking a 14-year-old to pick out all of your insecurities. Yay.

Your manager had delivered you a notice - looking quite sheepish - calling you into the revered designer's office at 6am the next morning, and that very morning you walk into a clean, crème-coloured office, one that did not match your boss' personality at all.

A woman with brown hair and hard features sits at a desk on the other side of the room, tapping her fingers impatiently on the dark wood as she catches your eye.

The Baroness, after several long moments of silence, raises a perfectly arched eyebrow at you. "Well? I don’t have all day. Sit down." She motions to one of the seats opposite her expectantly.