ONE
Shimmering with transformation
Georgie
“You’re not sweating,” purrsthe smug voice in my earbuds. “Your body is simply shimmering with transformation.”
I shove the buds deeper in my ears, trying to drown out the part of my brain that’s screaming:You’re going to die, Georgie.
“Butterflies in your stomach?” she coos. “That’s your inner power awakening.”
I grip the stair railing with clammy hands. This stretch of stairs between floors fourteen and fifteen of McLaren Hotels HQ has become my hiding spot.
“Breathe in success, breathe out fear,” Meditation Lady insists. “You are a strong, confident woman. You are safe. Nothing can hurt you.”
Lies. Bald-faced, criminal-level lies.
I amnotsafe. Public speaking can absolutely hurt you. Emotionally. Psychologically. Quite possibly physically. I haven’t had a proper poo in five days. Every time some perky coworker trills, “All set for your big presentation?” my colon whispers a violentnoand tightens. I’m beyond prunes.
There’s a small but entirely plausible chance that ten minutes from now, standing in front of everyone on slide two, I’ll just collapse from stress-induced constipation and die.
So no, Meditation Lady with your soothing voice, I am not “safe.” I’m a bloated mess of a woman who spent way too much on a work dress that’s now soaked in fear sweat.
“Come on, you can do this,” I whisper, adjusting my glasses with shaky fingers that clearly disagree.
Statistically, people don’t usually die giving presentations. They might faint, have a weep in the toilets afterward, develop a stress rash, or, in extreme cases, shart themselves in front of their department.
But death is rare. Though if anyone’s going to be the tragic outlier, it’s me.
Ishouldbe excited. This is my chance to be recognized formywork, not drowned out by someone with a louder voice and an even louder tie.
For months, I’ve watched my ideas get talked over or repackaged by Craig five minutes later like he’d just thought of them. Each time I promise myself:Next time you’ll speak up, Georgie.
But next time never comes.
But now—finally—after months of obsessive work, the prototype works.
I drag in a shaky breath and squeeze my eyes shut. “You deserve this. You deserve to be heard.”
Because I do.
While normal Londoners were out having sex or at least making human eye contact, I was hunched over my laptop at 1 a.m., hair cemented with dry shampoo, whispering “please work” at code while a pizza slice turned to stone next to my monitor.
But honestly? I embarrassingly, geekilylovemy work.
There’s nothing like that rush when the code finally runs without spitting out a wall of angry red error messages. Code doesn’t care if my voice wobbles or if I accidentally wave at people who are gesturing at someone behind me.
But put me in front of living, blinking humans with judgmental eyebrows and my throat just closes. It’s all those eyes watching, clocking every stammer, every time I push my glasses up nervously.
I shift from foot to foot, trying to shake the anxiety loose. One breath, in through the nose. Two, out through the mouth. Three—
A sneaky burp claws its way up my chest and bursts out of me.
My hand flies to my mouth.
Fucking hell. I’ve got thenervous burps.
For crying out loud, you’d think my entire future depended on this presentation the way I’m carrying on. It’s just a room full of Craig’s middle-management cronies, who probably won’t even glance up from their phones. The worst I should be worried about is someone snoring during my big reveal.
