Something loosens in my ribcage. My shoulders migrate down from their defensive position around my earlobes. My voice stops wobbling like I’m narrating a hostage video, finally sounding like it belongs to someone who knows what she’s talking about.
I might genuinely survive this ordeal.
Except—
A second voice cuts through the room.
For one wild second, I think Craig’s bulldozing me with his usual droning monologue about “scalable solutions.”
But it’s not Craig’s voice.
It’s mine.
“Good morning, everyone! I’m Georgie Fitzgerald, and today I’m absolutely thrilled to discuss real-time energy reporting!”
I freeze, heart slamming into my ribs.
Why the fuck am I hearingmy own voicewhen my mouth is firmly shut?
The horrible realization crashes over me: my sweaty, trembling thumb must have triggered the voice memo app on my phone.
Around the room, expressions shift from polite attention to bewildered confusion. Eyes widen. A ripple of uncertainty passes through the audience—Is this some sort of innovative presentation technique?
“One sec,” I squeak.
From the back of the room, Patrick makes a low, rumbling sound deep in his throat.
I’d rather set myself on fire than see his expression right now.
My hands tremble so violently I can barely grip the phone, let alone unlock the bloody thing. Wrong passcode. Twice. The screen mocks me with its cheerful “Try Again” message.
“Just a minor… uh… technical hiccup,” I announce brightly, while my own voice continues blaring from the speaker.
“Okay, so here’s a little icebreaker for everyone,” chirps recorded Georgie, disgustingly peppy and full of misguided confidence. “What did the solar panel say to the hotel?”
There’s a pause because apparently recorded Georgie believed in dramatic comedic timing, before she delivers the fatal blow: “I’m a big fan of your energy!”
Oh. Christ.
Anything but that horrific dad joke. It didn’t even make fucking sense when I tested it on Riri, and she thinksMrs. Brown’s Boysis peak humor.
The silence that follows is louder than the joke itself. Not the merciful quiet of polite attention, but the collective agony of twenty people experiencing simultaneous secondhand embarrassment.
Craig barks out a laugh. “Ha! Classic tech issues, eh?”
He’s smiling, but it’s the smile of a man mentally picking out my coffin.
And Patrick?
Patrick doesn’t laugh. He just watches me with that furrow between his brows.
I fumble the phone again—finally unlock the bastard thing—just as the next gem detonates:
“Remember to smile when you speak,” chirps recorded Georgie, thrilled with her own coaching advice. “Project confidence! Energy!”
Please let that be the end. Please—
“And whatever you do, don’t get the nervous burps.”
