City of Glass Heels
Chapter 1: The 7:45 Hustle
Ava Monroe's heels clicked like a metronome on the cracked sidewalks of Brooklyn, keeping pace with the heartbeat of the city. She wasn't running, not technically, but anyone watching would've known she was in a race—against time, against expectations, maybe even against herself.
She clutched her coffee like it was armor and navigated the morning crowd with the precision of someone who'd spent years mastering the commute. Eyeliner sharp. Hair pinned. Lip gloss on. She hadn't eaten, but her ambition was a kind of hunger. One that didn't let up.
Twenty-eight and too tired to be this broke, Ava worked as an assistant fashion editor at Lace and Velvet, an up-and-coming online style mag fighting tooth and nail for relevance in a world of short attention spans and curated perfection. Her days were filled with pretense—interns who lied about Prada, meetings where ideas were stolen with a smile, and latte runs where even being on time wasn't enough.
She texted as she walked.
Madison: Where tf are you? Raymond just walked by asking where his latte is.
Ava: I'm 6 stops away. Tell Raymond to drink water. It's good for his soul.
She smiled a little to herself, even though the burn in her calves was real. Raymond Godfrey was her boss, a man with too much power and too little kindness. He liked his coffee hot, his interns invisible, and his wardrobe monochrome. Ava was none of those things.
The subway station swallowed her into its steel and grime. She moved like muscle memory—down the steps, through the turnstile, earbuds in, volume up. Her playlist thumped with early morning confidence. Solange. Megan. A little Nina Simone, just to remind her of her roots.
She caught the train with seconds to spare. Her reflection in the window was sharper than she felt: a clean-cut blazer over a vintage tee, sleek braids pulled back, eyes too tired for their age. Across from her, a girl no older than twenty scrolled through TikTok. Somewhere behind them, a man beatboxed into the void.
The train lurched. Ava swayed. She didn't fall.
Tasha had said something last night that stuck to the inside of her skull like glitter.
When are you gonna stop being everybody's assistant and start being the boss?
Ava had laughed it off with a sip of rum punch. Tasha was her roommate, her ride-or-die, her chaos twin. A self-made hair stylist with her own pop-up business on Flatbush Ave, Tasha believed in manifestation, neon nails, and walking away from anything that didn't feel like magic.
Magic wasn't paying rent. Ava was.
But still, the question lingered.
The train screeched into Fulton Street. Ava emerged into the light, walked fast past overpriced juice bars and silent office workers, and ducked into the glass tower that housed Lace and Velvet. The elevator was slow. She beat it by taking the stairs.
Her desk was clean. Her inbox was not.
Raymond walked past at 8:20 on the dot. He didn't stop walking when he asked, Where's my oat milk latte?
Traffic, she said. Murder.
He didn't reply. Just kept scrolling on his tablet like the screen mattered more than anything she'd ever say.
By 8:45, she was deep in prep for the most important meeting of the week—a concept pitch for a streetwear photoshoot featuring Black-owned fashion labels. It had been her idea. If she could pull it off, she might finally earn more than praise. She might actually get her name on something.
As she scrolled through her mood board, her phone buzzed. Not Madison. A new number.
You don't know me, but I know your work. I need your eye for something big. Call me. – R.S.
She froze.
There was a link. She hesitated. Clicked.
A private Instagram page popped open. Only three posts. Each photo more striking than the last—high-concept streetwear with regal flourishes, African textiles reimagined with raw NYC edge. Unreleased. Unlike anything she'd seen this year.
The username was @reinasade.
Ava's pulse spiked.
Reina Sade.
A designer who'd dropped off the map five years ago. Rumors said she walked away from her label after they tried to whitewash her vision. Others said she had a breakdown. No one really knew. Reina Sade had disappeared from fashion, but not from legend.
Another message arrived.
Meet me. Tonight. 9 PM. Pier 17. Bring your instinct.
Ava stared at her screen. She looked out the window, where the city glittered with possibility and lies. She heard Tasha again, whispering in her ear.
Bosses don't wait for rent to drop. They raise their own damn floor.
Ava Monroe adjusted her collar. Then she smiled.
Tonight, she wouldn't be anybody's assistant.
She'd bring her instinct.
And maybe—just maybe—start becoming the woman she was meant to be.