Los Angeles, 2023 – Jade's First Day at Voss Group
The glass doors of Voss Tower slid open, and Jade Carter stepped into a world of marble and murmured privilege. Her heels clicked against the floor, a borrowed pair of Louboutins that Malik had insisted were "non-negotiable for first impressions." She wore a tailored blazer in deep burgundy, her natural curls twisted into a sleek updo—"professional but approachable," Liam had advised. The scar beneath her makeup itched, a reminder that every inch of this look was a performance.
"Ms. Carter?" The receptionist, a young white woman with a headset, smiled warmly. "Mr. Hayes is expecting you on the 32nd floor. Security will escort you."
Jade nodded, ignoring the way the woman's gaze lingered on her earrings—hoops inscribed with Yoruba symbols, a gift from her grandmother. Too Black, she thought. Cover it up later.
The elevator ride was silent, save for the faint hum of classical music. Jade studied her reflection in the polished steel: high cheekbones, neutral lipstick, a blazer that screamed "I belong here." But her hands trembled slightly, betraying the girl who'd spent last night stitching buttons onto discount dresses.
"You're not just a Black girl from South Central anymore," Malik had said over coffee that morning. "You're J. Carter. Act like it."
The doors opened to chaos.
"Voss exploits Black bodies!"
The chant echoed down the hallway, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of drums. A group of protesters—mostly Black and Brown kids, some as young as fifteen—held signs reading "Fashion is not free labor" and "Black designers matter." Security guards moved to block them, but Jade could see Liam up ahead, arguing with a suited executive.
"This is a private building!" the executive shouted.
"Then start treating your workers like they're private humans!" a protester shot back, a skinny girl with braids and a Voss-logo T-shirt modified to say "Vultures."
Jade's chest tightened. She recognized the girl—Tamika, her childhood neighbor, who'd dropped out of school to support her siblings. Before she could think, she stepped forward.
"Tamika?"
The girl turned, eyes widening. "Jade? Oh my God, is that you?"
Jade winced at the familiarity in her tone. J. Carter doesn't know Tamika. J. Carter has never slept on a couch in a two-bedroom apartment with three other kids.
"Um, no, I think you have me confused—"
"Bullshit." Tamika grinned, sharp and bitter. "I'd know those curls anywhere. What, you too good for South Central now?"
Heat rose in Jade's cheeks. She could feel the executive's gaze on her, Liam's worried glance from across the hall. Stay in character.
"I'm sorry, but I'm here for a meeting," she said coolly, ignoring the way Tamika's smile faded. "If you'll excuse me."
She brushed past the protesters, heart pounding. That could've ruined everything.
"Jade!" Liam caught up with her, looking uncharacteristically frazzled. "Are you okay? I didn't realize you—"
"It's fine," she interrupted, lowering her voice. "Let's just get to the meeting."
The boardroom was all glass and chrome, sunlight streaming in from floor-to-ceiling windows. At the head of the table sat Ethan Voss, dressed in a charcoal suit that fit him like a threat. His gray eyes flicked to her as she entered, sharp and assessing, like he could see through the makeup to the scar beneath.
"Ah, Ms. Carter," he said, voice like ice. "Glad you could join us. I was just explaining to the team why our latest campaign needs… more edge."
Jade took a seat, aware of the stares—mostly white, mostly male, a few women who looked like they'd had their smiles surgically enhanced. "J. Carter, this is the creative director, Mark," Liam said, gesturing to a man with a goatee and a silk scarf.
"Pleasure," Mark said, shaking her hand. His grip was too firm, his smile too wide. "Love your… vibe. Very… ethnic."
Ethnic. The word hung in the air like a fart. Jade forced a smile. "Thank you. I aim to bring diverse perspectives to the table."
Ethan cleared his throat. "Diverse perspectives are all well and good, but we're here to sell clothes, not win a diversity award. Ms. Carter, your portfolio shows talent, but your designs lack… mass appeal. Can you explain why I should approve your 'urban streetwear' concept when our demographic is predominantly white, middle-class women?"
Jade's nails dug into her palms. Urban streetwear—code for Black people's clothes. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, the doors burst open again.
"This is a violation of our first amendment rights!" Tamika shouted, pushing past a security guard. "You can't just—"
She stumbled, colliding with Jade's chair. Coffee sloshed from Jade's mug, splattering across Ethan's pristine suit. Gasps rippled through the room.
Ethan stood slowly, staring down at the dark stain on his chest. When he looked up, his eyes were thunderstorms.
"Get. Out."
Tamika paled, but Jade stood too, adrenaline overriding fear. "It was an accident—"
"I wasn't talking to you." Ethan's voice was deadly calm. "Security, escort Ms.… ?"
"Wilson," Tamika said, chin raised. "Tamika Wilson. And I'm not leaving until you listen to us. You're using Black culture to sell dresses but won't hire a single Black designer—"
"Now."
As security dragged Tamika out, Jade caught her eye. The look in Tamika's gaze—betrayal, anger, hurt—cut deeper than any scar.
"Ms. Carter," Ethan said, turning to her. "My office. Now."
Liam mouthed "Good luck" as she followed Ethan out. The walk to his office was silent, the scent of coffee and bergamot thick in the air. When the door closed behind them, Ethan rounded on her.
"Explain."
"Explain what?" Jade snapped, suddenly exhausted by the pretense. "That your company exploits Black labor but panics when Black people demand respect? That you're so scared of 'urban' designs because they remind you of the people you're profiting from?"
Ethan's jaw ticked. "Watch your tone."
"No." She stepped closer, ignoring the way her heart raced. "You watch yours. You think I don't see it? The way you look at me, like I'm a problem to be solved. Well, I'm not here to be your diversity trophy. I'm here to design."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, to her surprise, he smiled—sharp, humorless. "Design, then. Sophia Blake's charity gala is in three days. Her current dress is a disaster. I want you to fix it."
Jade crossed her arms. "And if I refuse?"
"You won't." He leaned in, close enough that she could see the faint scar above his eyebrow. "Because if you do, I'll dig into your past so deep, even your grandmother's neighbors will know about that scar you're hiding. And then I'll make sure no one in this city ever takes you seriously again."
Bastard. He'd noticed the scar. Of course he had.
"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "But I have conditions. No microaggressions, no backhanded compliments about my 'unique perspective,' and full creative control."
Ethan extended a hand. "Deal. But one more thing, Ms. Carter."
"What?"
He reached up, brushing a stray curl behind her ear—a gesture so intimate, so unexpected, it made her freeze.
"Lose the fear," he said quietly. "It's unbecoming."
Jade left his office, heart pounding for an entirely different reason. In the elevator, she touched the ear he'd brushed, still warm from his hand. Get it together, she told herself. He's your enemy.
But as she pulled out her sketchbook and began drafting ideas for Sophia's dress, she couldn't shake the look in Ethan's eyes when he'd said "Lose the fear." For the first time in seven years, Jade wondered if maybe, just maybe, fear wasn't the only thing she'd been hiding.
Somewhere, a protest chant faded into the city noise. Somewhere, a man in a stained suit stared at his reflection, flexing a hand that wouldn't stop trembling.
And somewhere, a girl with braids and a modified T-shirt scribbled "Jade Carter is a sellout" in her notebook, unaware that the name would soon become both a weapon and a shield.