1
SUTTON
My stomach twisted itself into a sailor’s knot as I sat in the oversized conference room at North Star Ventures. Nothing good ever came from a four o’clock meeting on a Friday—especially one called by our elusive founder and CEO, Jameson McKnight, who usually didn’t materialize before ten-thirty.
Everyone knew what late-week meetings meant. Layoffs. Okay, maybe noteveryone, but I’d read it somewhere. Companies loved “evaluating resources” at the end of the year, and lately, this company was struggling like a phone on one-percent battery.
If heads were about to roll, mine would be one of them. Last in, first out, right? I was the baby of the team, hired straight out of college mostly because I’d built a solid social media following.
Too bad my followers didn’t care about an app that used AI to plan your meals. They stuck around for my latte art and baking reels, not my thrilling life as a low-level peon at a tech firm in Pleasure Valley, Washington.
“Good morning, everyone,” Monique chirped, striding to the front of the room. “Thank you so much for coming out today. Mr.McKnight just needs a few minutes of your time, and then you can get back to work.”
The company vice president was wearing a Christmas sweater covered in fuzzy white pompoms the size of golf balls. Definitely not the outfit of a woman about to hand out pink slips…right?
Unless she didn’t know either. Which somehow made it worse.
I slumped lower in the cushioned chair, trying to become invisible while simultaneously calculating how many months of rent I had saved. Three, if I was lucky. Even less if Danika decided we needed to upgrade our internet package again.
The door opened, and every head in the room swiveled like we were watching a tennis match. Jameson McKnight walked in and the air pressure changed.
I’d seen him exactly four times since starting at North Star two months ago. Once during my interview—where he’d asked me two questions, nodded, and disappeared. Once in the hallway, when he was on his phone and didn’t even glance my way. Once in the break room, where he’d microwaved something that smelled like expensive leftovers and walked out. And once last week, when he’d actually stopped by my desk, looked at my screen for approximately three seconds, said “Good,” and walked away.
That “good” had sustained me for days.
He was tall—over six feet—with dark hair that looked like he’d been running his hands through it for hours, sharp cheekbones, and eyes so blue they seemed backlit. He wore expensive jeans and a black henley that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget, and he moved with the kind of confidence that came from having sold a company for an obscene amount of money before he turned thirty.
Now, at thirty-five, he looked tired. Driven, yes. Intense, absolutely. But tired in a way that made me wonder when he’d last slept.
“I know it’s late in the day,” he said, his voice carrying easily across the room without him having to raise it. “I’ll keep this brief.”
My heart dropped into my knockoff designer boots.
“The Christmas campaign didn’t perform the way we hoped.”
Oh no.
I’d spearheaded that campaign. Well, “spearheaded” might be generous—I’d created all the content, managed the social media push, coordinated the influencer partnerships, and basically lived and breathed Stella for the past six weeks. The idea had been to position our AI kitchen assistant as the ultimate holiday helper. Meal planning for family gatherings, recipe scaling, dietary accommodations, and cost reduction.
It was a good campaign. Agreatcampaign, even. But apparently, great wasn’t good enough.
“We need new ideas,” Jameson continued, leaning against the table at the front of the room. “We have two weeks left in the year. I want to hear what you’ve got.”
Monique jumped in first, because she always did. “What if we partnered with grocery stores? Like, in-store demonstrations?”
“Timeline’s too tight,” Jameson said. Not dismissive, just factual.
Lloyd from product development cleared his throat. “We could do a webinar series. ‘Cooking with Stella’ or something. Get some celebrity chefs involved.”
I barely suppressed an eye roll. Celebrity chefs? With what budget? And who was going to watch a webinar two days before Christmas?
“Maybe,” Jameson said, which was his polite way of sayingabsolutely not.
More suggestions flew around the table. A podcast sponsorship. A social media challenge. A partnership with meal kit companies. Each one more desperate than the last, and none of them addressing the real problem—we were marketing Stella like a tech product when we should have been marketing her like a friend.
“Sutton?”
My head snapped up so fast, I nearly gave myself whiplash. Jameson was looking directly at me, those blue eyes focused with an intensity that made my mouth go dry.
