Even through the fog of panic, I catch Bandwidth Guy giving me the least subtle once-over.
Riri chose this dress. Emerald green, tailored, the kind that’s meant to “match my eyes” and “command the room,” apparently. She practically wrestled me into it this morning, hollering, “Show those tech boys what’s what!” while yanking the zipper so hard I nearly lost a nipple.
She even talked me into heels. I never have my legs out at work, and by “legs,” I mean the modest stretch between knee and ankle. Let’s not get wild.
Most of the men here probably didn’t even realize Ihadlegs.
I guess I looked nice this morning. Now, standing here in the spotlight, I just feel… exposed.
I pretend to check my notes while reminding myself that breathing is essential for not dying.
The door bangs open. Craig storms in. He slaps a few of his buddies on the back, his carefully cultivated alliance of yes-men who laugh at his jokes and never question his authority.
“Morning, folks!” he booms, loud enough that the people in the next room probably feel acknowledged.
Roy squeezes my arm then abandons me for a chair, leaving me alone at the front.
Craig plants his hands on his hips, chest puffed. “I know everyone’s buzzing to see what IRIS can do. The team and I have been working our butts off!”
I physically cringe.
“IRIS is everything I’ve been pushing for. Innovation, efficiency, future-proofing, yeah?” He pats his chest like he’s just won an Oscar. “What my department has achieved here puts McLaren Hotels ahead of the curve. And I couldn’t be prouder of what we’ve built.”
Whatwe’vebuilt.
As if he wasn’t sipping mojitos at a “leadership retreat” in Marbella while I was crying into my hoodie because the database wouldn’t stop spewing null values.
Iknowthis project could be a game-changer for the hotel. This is my chance to show I’m not just the tech gremlin they occasionally wheel out to reset the router.
I just need to get the words out. In English. Not in whatever high-pitched nonsense escaped during my last attempt at public speaking, when the IT intern offered me his inhaler and asked if I needed to sit down.
“I’ll hand it over to Georgina for this,” Craig says with that patronizing smile. “She’ll walk you through the system. I’ll step in if needed, of course.”
Translation: Stay in your lane or I’ll humiliate you.
He never lets me talk to humans, but even he knows he can’t blag this crowd. One technical question and he’s toast.
I death-grip my phone. The remote app is open, thumb hovering, ready to flip slides without fumbling at the laptop.
Some people glance up politely. Others are scrolling their phones, clearly here for the pastries. Bandwidth guy is staring at my tits.
Honestly, the ones ignoring me are my favorites.
Behind me, the title slide glows:IRIS—Integrated Resort Intelligence System—The Brain of the Hotel.
“Good morning,” I start, softer than I’d rehearsed, but steady. “Thanks for being here.”
Craig claims the front row, spreading his legs wide enough to take up two seats. He grabs his lanyard and stretches it taut, then releases it with a deliberatesnapagainst his chest, eyes locked on mine.
The message is clear: Remember who’s in charge.
I clear my throat. “So, uh…”
I literally stared into my bathroom mirror this morning, chanting, “Do not start withso, uh.”
And here we fucking are.
I open my mouth to recover when the door swings open.
