My Strangely Heartbeats

“Absolutely not!” I protest into the receiver. “But you need a break,” insists Rose, my tenacious best friend, her voice a mix of concern and mischief. “I simply can’t. There’s a whole collection to finalize, and it’s due out next month,” I reply, the life of a designer is a constant whirlwind. “Stephen’s got some juicy gossip. You’ll regret missing out if I can not drag you to brunch,” she teases, her Mexican accent coloring every word. Glancing at the swathes of fabric laid out before me, I exhale deeply, a sense of resignation washing over me. “Alright, alright, you win,” I relent.

“And you are on fabric duty with me tomorrow. See you in ten,” I add. “Lawyers excel at persuasion, and I will be more than happy to lend a hand with the fabrics,” she responds, a smile evident in her voice. Rose isn’t your average lawyer; she is one of the most accomplished young Mexican attorneys around. I’ve witnessed her journey through law school, convincing her parents to support her legal ambitions over a medical career. Rose craves uniqueness, striving for distinction in all she does, which is why she was adamant about winning her parents’ approval.

“Take care, darling,” I say before ending the call. I reach for the office phone, its sleek form resting on my designer glass desk. “Tracy, could you come to my office, please?” I request, my tone friendly. Moments later, there’s a knock. “Ms. Jones?” Tracy enters, her presence filling the spacious room. “Please, it is Anna,” I remind her with a chuckle. Tracy’s been with the company for a while but only recently stepped into the assistant role after her predecessor’s shocking betrayal—spiking my coffee with drugs. “Apologies, Anna,” she corrects herself, and we share a laugh. “I am off to brunch. I will return in about an hour,” I inform her. She nods, already absorbed in her tablet. “Just so you know, you’ve got that Prada meeting when you get back, and fabric selection will have to wait until tomorrow,” she advises, multitasking effortlessly. “Tracy, you’re a gem,” I say, impressed. “Thank you,” she replies with a light chuckle. I collect my purse, phone, and sunglasses. “Enjoy your lunch,” I tell her warmly as I depart. Exiting my office, I’m enveloped by the serene ambiance of the workspace. It’s a testament to comfort and elegance, a design courtesy of a family friend renowned for her interior prowess. I press the elevator button for the ground floor, descending amidst thoughts of the potential media frenzy outside. My parents’ fame—my mother, an acclaimed actress, and my father, a celebrated artist and occasional singer—meant a childhood shrouded in caution against the ever-prying paparazzi. The restrictions were suffocating, and at twenty-two, the pressure hasn’t eased. Despite being born into the limelight, my fashion line’s success is my own doing. It started as an anonymous venture, gaining popularity before I revealed myself as the creator. That announcement sent my phone into a frenzy. While my background played a role, the brand’s triumph is largely the fruit of my relentless dedication. “Good morning, Ms. Jones,” greet my employees as I step off the elevator. They seem intimidated, though I’m far from fearsome. “Morning, everyone,” I return their greetings with a smile. Approaching the glass doors at the front, my pulse quickens, hands trembling at the sight of paparazzi swarming outside. Pushing through the doors, I’m greeted by the vibrant energy of New York, a city I adore.

  The city’s pulse thrums through the streets, a symphony of lights, motion, and the collective drive that courses through the veins of its inhabitants.

“Kindly step aside,” my security pleads with the throng of eager photographers and reporters. “Anna, how’s life treating you?” “What’s new with Rose?” “When can we expect your latest fashion line?” “How are your celebrity parents?” “Is there a baby on the way?” “Whose shirt were you spotted in last week?” Their inquiries bombard me, but I respond with grace, despite my parents’ advice to the contrary.

“I’m just trying to grab some lunch. Could you please make way?” I request with a smile.

“Of course, Anna,” one of them replies, a touch of reverence in his voice.

“How’s the gang?” she inquires, referring to our notorious circle of friends, all offspring of the famed and fortunate, dubbed ‘the crew’.

“Anna, is it true about your mom’s health?” Rumors ignite from the smallest sparks.

“No, that’s not true,” I clarify.

Finally reaching the car, I leap into the sanctuary of the backseat as Mr. Martins secures the doors. He’s a cool character, unfazed by the chaos.

“To The Kings Mansion, please,” I say, returning his friendly gaze.

Buckling up, I retrieve my phone from my purse, greeted by a barrage of notifications. Rose has sent a link to a tabloid snapshot of our lives: Rose exiting the courthouse, Chris approaching his car, Stephen departing his towering office, and me, moments after leaving mine, all under the headline ‘The Crew: Out and About, But Where To?’.

I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at their relentless scrutiny.

With a sigh, I power down my phone, turning my attention to the cityscape blurring past.

Arriving at the Kings Mansion, I step out and approach the door. Molly greets me with her ever-warm smile and an embrace that feels like home.

“Annabelle,” she exclaims, pulling me into a hug.

“Hello, Molly,” I reply, returning the warmth.

“Is that Anna I hear?” Tanya’s voice floats through the air.

“It sure is,” I laugh as she joins us in a group hug.

“Where’s my hug?” Rose’s voice chimes in, her heels clicking on the marble.

“You’ll get no hug from me,” I jest, earning a mock glare from her.

She hands Tanya a jar of pickled mangoes, my absolute weakness.