The oversized buttons on Emily’s tailored blazer gleamed under the fluorescent office lights as she hurried through the corporate lobby. Three years at Blackwood Industries had taught her that appearance meant everything in this cutthroat world of glass and steel.

“Those buttons are rather… distinctive,” remarked Caroline, her supervisor, with the kind of calculated smile that never quite reached her eyes. “Though perhaps not quite appropriate for client meetings.”

Emily touched one of the brass buttons self-consciously. They were her mother’s, salvaged from an old coat - the last tangible connection to a woman who had scrubbed floors in this very building two decades ago.

“I believe my work speaks for itself, Ms. Harrison,” Emily replied, lifting her chin slightly. “The Westbrook proposal was well-received.”

“Indeed.” Caroline’s perfectly manicured fingers drummed against her desk. “Though I wonder if Thomas Westbrook was more impressed by your… presentation than your actual numbers.”

The implication hung heavy in the air. Emily felt heat rise to her cheeks but held Caroline’s gaze. “I earned my position here, just as you earned yours.”

“Did we?” Caroline’s laugh was brittle. “Some of us had to make certain… compromises along the way. Speaking of which, Mr. Blackwood has requested your presence at tonight’s charity gala.”

Emily’s stomach twisted. She knew what these private “charity” events really meant - another arena where wealthy men shopped for trophy wives among their female employees. Her mother had warned her about such things on her deathbed.

“I’m afraid I have prior commitments,” Emily said firmly.

Caroline’s smile turned predatory. “That wasn’t a request, dear. Either you attend, or perhaps we should discuss your future with the company on Monday.”

Later that evening, Emily stood before her mirror, fingers trailing over the brass buttons that seemed to mock her now. Her mother’s voice echoed in her memory: “This world will try to strip away everything that makes you who you are, piece by piece.”

The phone buzzed - a text from Mr. Blackwood himself: “Looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

With trembling fingers, Emily began unfastening the buttons one by one. As each one clinked onto her dresser, she felt pieces of herself falling away too. The last button slipped from her grasp, rolling under the bed into darkness.

Some choices, she realized, were made long before we ever faced them. Her fate had been sealed the moment she stepped into this glittering cage, thinking she could change the system from within.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” she whispered, reaching for the sleek designer dress Caroline had sent over. “Some battles were lost before we even began fighting them.”

The buttons lay scattered and forgotten as Emily walked out into the night, another small surrender in an endless war she never had a chance of winning.