At 8:43 a.m., the Manhattan skyline glinted like polished silver behind the high-rise windows of Ascend Creative Agency — and Peyton Hart was running.
The cold New York wind slapped her cheeks as she sprinted across 7th Avenue, dodging taxis honking like enraged geese. Her MetroCard had refused to scan, the train stalled for seven minutes in a tunnel, and the elevators in her building were moving with the urgency of melting ice. And now, as she burst into the glass lobby of the office, her heart sank.
Roy Baxter was already standing outside his office door.
Waiting.
Arms crossed.
Jaw set like concrete.
The kind of image every underpaid creative in America recognized instantly — the angry boss who thinks punctuality is a moral standard.
“Morning, Mr. Baxter,” she panted, tugging down her blazer.
He checked his Rolex — a model that cost more than Peyton’s yearly rent in Queens.
“You’re ten minutes late, Peyton,” he said, his voice carrying across the open office like an ice-cold slap. “What happened? Sitting at home doing your makeup all morning?”
Half the bullpen paused in their typing to look.
Heat crawled up Peyton’s neck.
“No, sir,” she said. “The train—”
“I don’t want excuses.” He snatched a form from his desk. “You know what this is?”
Her stomach sank. “A write-up?”
“Correct. First offense or not, I treat everyone equally.”
A lie. A bold one.
He clicked his pen like a judge delivering a sentence.
“Sign it.”
Her hand trembled as she scribbled her name. She needed this job. She needed this income. Her mother’s medical bills didn’t pay themselves.
“And I hope,” Roy added loudly, “that those designs you’re working on are actually good. The client coming tomorrow is the biggest opportunity this agency’s seen in years. Don’t screw it up.”
Behind them, the elevator dinged.
Connor strolled out, relaxed as a golden retriever, sunglasses still on, hair tousled like he’d rolled out of a photoshoot instead of bed.
“Hey boss,” he called casually. “Sorry I’m late, man.”
Roy’s face transformed instantly. He lit up like he’d seen his long-lost son.
“Connor! Don’t sweat it, buddy. Last night’s game was wild, right? You recover yet?”
Connor laughed. “Barely. Thanks again for the VIP tickets!”
“Anything for you,” Roy said, patting his back. “Get some coffee with the boys and then settle in.”
Peyton stared. Girls in the office exchanged looks.
So much for treating everyone equally.
Connor winked at her on his way past.
“Morning, Peyton.”
She muttered something like “Morning,” though she wasn’t sure if words actually formed.
As Roy returned to his office, Peyton’s best friend Maya hurried over from her desk.
“I saw the whole thing,” Maya whispered. “He wrote you up?”
“Yep.”
“And Connor?”
“He invited him for coffee.”
Maya rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out.
“The perks of being in the boys’ club.”
Peyton let out a breath. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”
She dropped her bag and sat down, praying her hands would stop shaking. Then she opened her project folder — pages of sketches she’d spent all weekend perfecting. Clean, modern, bold. She knew design. She knew her worth. And she knew her work could land them this client.
If only her boss felt the same.
“Are those your drafts?” Maya asked, leaning over.
“Yeah. What do you think?”
Maya’s eyes widened. “Peyton, these are unbelievable. Seriously, if that senior designer position goes to anyone but you—”
The bullpen erupted with laughter.
The boys were watching a highlight reel of last night’s Lakers game.
Peyton tried to focus, but frustration curled in her chest like a burning wire.
She deserved better. She worked harder than all of them combined. And yet here she was — being belittled like some intern who wandered in from the street.
At eleven, Roy called the team for a review session.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said without looking at Peyton.
She stepped forward and handed him her mock-ups. Her chest tightened as he flipped through them.
Then his face hardened.
“What is this?” he barked. “This isn’t what I asked for.”
“I followed your specifications,” she said carefully. “I just added some personal touches. I thought the client—”
“There it is!” he shouted, waving the page. “What is it with you women? Always having to change things.”
A stunned silence fell across the room.
Connor straightened, glancing nervously between them.
Roy sighed dramatically. “Never mind. Connor, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Connor swallowed. “Uh, actually, I haven’t finished mine yet. After the game I was—well, hungover—so, uh… this is all I have.”
He handed over two sad, incomplete sketches.
Roy laughed. “It’s okay, man. You were out with us last night! Just finish it tomorrow before the client arrives.”
Peyton froze.
He excused Connor — for showing up late, hungover, unprepared — while she was written up and humiliated over being ten minutes late for the first time ever.
Her blood boiled, but she stayed silent.
Connor shrugged helplessly at her.
The next morning, the lights in the conference room buzzed overhead as Roy stood in front of the team with a smug grin.
“As you know,” he said, “a new senior designer position opened up. I’ve considered every member of our team, looked at work ethic, talent, reliability…”
Peyton’s heart pounded.
“…and I’ve decided to promote the most deserving candidate.”
Maya squeezed her hand.
“That person… is Connor!”
The bullpen erupted with cheers.
Connor blinked in surprise, then forced a grin as Roy clapped him on the back.
Peyton felt something inside her crack.
She stood.
“Excuse me, sir,” she said, voice steady but trembling underneath. “I’ve been here twice as long as Connor. I’ve handled double the workload. I’ve hit every deadline. How can you choose him over me?”
The room froze.
Roy glared. “You’re doing an awful lot of talking back today, Peyton. You PMSing or something?”
Gasps echoed around them.
Peyton stared at him, stunned. “I just want to know what he has that I don’t.”
Roy smirked. “Some jobs require a suit… not a skirt.”
The office fell silent.
“So that’s it,” Peyton whispered. “You chose him because he’s a man.”
“I’d be very careful,” Roy snarled. “Unless you want another write-up. Or maybe I just fire you right now.”
“Actually,” Peyton said, straightening, “you don’t have to.”
She pulled the badge from around her neck and slammed it onto the table.
“I quit.”
Roy scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll come crawling back the moment your little business idea fails.”
Peyton held his gaze. “We’ll see about that.”
And with that, she walked out.
No tears.
No fear.
Just fire.
She didn’t look back.
Peyton didn’t let herself cry until she was three blocks away from the building and out of sight of anyone in an Ascend badge.
She ducked into a crowded coffee shop on the corner of 8th and 42nd, the kind of place where Wall Street analysts and Broadway stagehands shared the same line and nobody looked twice at a woman with red eyes and a shaking hand.
She ordered the cheapest thing on the menu — small black coffee, no room — and sat by the fogged-up window, her resignation echoing in her head.
You just quit your job.
Your steady paycheck.
Your health insurance.
You also quit being humiliated by a man who thought your gender was a flaw.
That last thought steadied her.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Maya.
ARE YOU OKAY??
Then another.
I’m so proud of you. He’s a jerk. You’re free.
Peyton stared at the message, tears blurring the screen, then typed back with fingers that still trembled.
I’m terrified. But yeah. Free.
A long pause. Then:
Come over tonight. I’ll bring three bottles of wine and a spreadsheet for your future empire.
Peyton actually laughed. Out loud. A businessman at the next table glanced over like laughter was offensive during market hours.
She flipped open her portfolio folder. Client logos, mockups, brand refreshes. Half of it Roy had taken credit for in pitches. The rest sat untouched because he preferred Connor’s “vibe.”
She flipped to the last page: her personal logo, small and simple in the corner.
HART STUDIO
Bold. Clean. Hers.
The name stared back at her like a dare.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s see what you can do.”
That night, in her cramped Queens apartment with its rattling heater and view of a brick wall, the empire officially began over cheap pizza and lukewarm Chardonnay.
Maya had her laptop open like a war general planning an invasion.
“Step one,” Maya said, stuffing a crust into her mouth. “Website. Step two, social media. Step three, email every contact you’ve ever had in New York, L.A., Chicago, anywhere. Step four, sleep never.”
Peyton laughed. “Step five, panic?”
“That’s a constant,” Maya said. “No need to put it in the plan.”
They stayed up till 2 a.m., building a basic site on a template platform, uploading her best work, cropping photos where Roy’s name appeared on anything she had actually created.
HART STUDIO – Brand & Visual Design
New York City & Beyond
It looked… real. Bare bones, no case studies yet, no fancy video, but real.
The next days blurred.
She woke early, sent cold emails to people she’d met at industry events, DM’d small businesses on Instagram, made a list of every indie coffee shop, yoga studio, and hair salon within a five-mile radius that had a tragic logo and a Yelp page full of personality.
Some ignored her. Some sent polite “not now” responses.
But a few said, “Actually, we’ve been thinking about rebranding…”
And that’s all she needed.
Within a month, she was designing a new menu board for a Brooklyn café, a logo for a Jersey City dog-grooming business, and social media templates for a tiny podcast in the Bronx. Small invoices, small retainers. But they were addressed to her.
To Hart Studio.
Rent still felt like a boss fight at the end of every month. Sometimes she paid late, sometimes she ate instant ramen, sometimes her mom’s medical bills sat in a stack on the counter like a guilt sculpture. But slowly, something was growing.
Then, one Tuesday morning, an email hit her inbox with a subject line that made her heart stutter.
BRAND RFP – STREAMLINE MEDIA GROUP
She clicked it open.
Dear Peyton,
My name is Christine Lee, Creative Director at Streamline Media Group in Los Angeles. Our team came across your work through a referral from Maya Singh. We’re looking for a fresh visual identity for an upcoming original film slate and would love to invite Hart Studio to submit concepts for a pitch next month.
We’re talking about a mid-budget, cross-platform American streaming brand and its new flagship film.
Please let us know if you’re interested.
Best,
Christine
Peyton screamed.
Like, full-volume New York apartment scream.
Maya, who had her notifications on for Peyton’s meltdowns, called immediately.
“What happened? Are you alive? Did Netflix steal your art or something?”
Peyton read the email aloud, voice shaking.
Maya shrieked so loud Peyton had to pull the phone away. “I TOLD YOU. I TOLD YOU YOU WERE A BIG DEAL.”
“You referred me?”
“Uh, yeah? Some of us like to hype up our friends instead of stealing their work and calling them hormonal.”
Peyton laughed, but nerves fluttered beneath it.
L.A.
Streaming group.
Film slate.
This wasn’t a new menu board in Brooklyn. This was the kind of project Roy would have killed for.
Her stomach twisted. And a tiny, dark part of her wondered: is this too big for me?
She closed her eyes and forced the thought out.
Roy’s voice had haunted enough of her choices. It didn’t get to haunt this one.
She clicked reply.
Hi Christine,
Thank you so much for reaching out. I’d be thrilled to participate in the pitch.
Best,
Peyton
Send.
No going back now.
Over the next weeks, Peyton lived in caffeine and color palettes.
She researched streaming platforms, trends in film key art, the way U.S. audiences responded to visual storytelling on posters and app tiles. She created mood boards with strong female leads, diverse casts, bold typography that didn’t whisper but roared.
At night, she sketched out logo ideas on her couch while the muted hum of late-night talk shows filled the background. She thought about every woman she’d known who’d been talked over, passed over, or laughed at in some glass tower somewhere between Times Square and Santa Monica.
This one’s for you, she thought.
She booked a cheap red-eye to Los Angeles, the kind that made your spine question your life choices. She arrived bleary-eyed at LAX, clutching a tube of printed boards and her laptop, and took a rideshare past palm trees and billboards.
The Streamline office sat in a sleek glass building with a view of the Hollywood Hills. Inside, it smelled like coffee and ambition.
Christine was younger than Peyton expected, in her early thirties, sleek bob, sharp blazer, and an easy smile that felt genuine.
“Peyton, hi! I’m so glad you could come,” she said, shaking her hand. “I’ve been following your work on IG since Maya sent it over. You’ve got teeth. In a good way.”
“Well, I do like biting back,” Peyton said, then immediately regretted phrasing it that way.
Christine laughed. “We can always use more of that in this town. Let’s get you set up in the conference room.”
On the way, they passed a television mounted on the wall, playing a trailer on loop. A man’s name flashed on-screen in big, glossy letters.
A Harry Weston Film
Peyton recognized the name. Everyone in America did. The tabloids in every grocery store from New York to California had run his face at some point. Big-budget films, big-budget premieres, rumors whispered online that nobody seemed brave enough to say out loud under their own names.
“When you say ‘flagship film’…” Peyton began slowly. “Is that…?”
Christine paused. “Yeah,” she said. “Unfortunately. Weston’s company is producing it. Our job is to make sure his brand spends money here and that our brand doesn’t get poisoned in the process.”
Peyton arched a brow. “You don’t sound thrilled about him.”
Christine’s jaw tightened the tiniest bit. “Let’s just say Hollywood has had enough powerful men who think they own women’s careers. I like that your work feels like it punches back. That’s why you’re here.”
They reached the glass-walled conference room. Several other agencies were already setting up — polished men in suits, a couple of large firms Peyton recognized from trade magazines. She ignored the way her pulse jumped.
“Do your thing,” Christine said softly. “Your work speaks for itself.”
Peyton set up her boards — the new visual identity she’d crafted, posters with fierce lighting, title treatments that didn’t revolve around Weston’s name, but the story’s female lead.
She couldn’t know it yet, but the woman who was supposed to be that female lead was sitting in a mansion in the Hollywood Hills at that very moment, holding a glass of wine and wondering if she was about to sell her soul.
Her name was Scarlett Jones.
And like Peyton, she was about to learn that the wrong man’s approval could cost you everything — and the right refusal could give you back your life.
On the flight back to New York that night, Peyton looked out at the patchwork of lights over the United States and felt something settle in her bones.
The old version of her — the one who shrank when Roy shouted, who signed write-ups with shaking hands — was gone. She’d left that woman somewhere between the Queens-bound 7 train and the day she quit.
Whatever came next — win or lose the pitch, big client or not — she finally believed one simple, radical truth:
She didn’t need anyone’s permission to be successful.
Least of all a man in a corner office.
Or a man with his name on a movie poster.
She smiled to herself and opened her laptop, starting a new folder.
STREAMLINE / WESTON FILM – FINAL
The cursor blinked on the screen, waiting.
Far away, in Los Angeles, a young actress in a red dress knocked on a heavy wooden door, stepping into Harry Weston’s world for the first time.
Their lives were about to intersect in a way neither of them saw coming.
And when the FBI eventually walked into the story, Peyton Hart would be there to see what happened to men who thought they could bully their way through women’s careers forever.
But that part of the story was still to come.
