“No arguments.”
I clamp my mouth shut. I know better than to push. Arguing withThatcher is like throwing yourself against a brick wall—pointless, and guaranteed to hurt.
“Understood,” I say, but the words are ash on my tongue.
How the fuck did I get here? Jackson doesn’t respect the work because he’s never had to. Hand him a strategy, and he’ll take the scenic route straight into the mountain. Not up it.
And now I’m supposed to wrangle him while courting the biggest client of my career?
Fan-fucking-tastic.
He steeples his fingers. “There’s more.”
Oh, God!
“I want you to take Shelby Davidson to happy hour next week.”
The name alone makes a noise escape from the back of my throat that sounds suspiciously like a dying fax machine.
Shelby is what happens when too much privilege, too little self-awareness, and an Instagram algorithm collide. She’s sunshine captions and designer endorsements. The human version of a sponsored post.
Double fan-fucking-tastic.
The last time I interacted with Shelby was last year. I was sitting on a panel where she absolutely humiliated me.
I was the keynote at a convention.Market strategy in a shifting digital age.
I was prepared, and devastatingly charming. The usual.
Until Shelby—then an intern with some advertising company, had a front-row seat, and way too much audacity—took the Q&A session hostage and verbally ripped me to shreds.
“That’s a really nice way of saying you’re resistant to change,” she’d said, smiling like a shark in lip gloss.
She wasn’t wrong. Which, honestly, made it ten times worse.
There were more layers to that moment—nuance, trauma—but I’ve spent too much in therapy (and bourbon) compartmentalizing it to go back now.
The clip went viral.
I became the out-of-touch dinosaur.
She walked away a legend.
Cross Media aka Asher Cross scooped her up and crowned her their Creative Director and Asher’s right hand gal.
“She’s Cross’s liaison. Build rapport.”
It takes everything not to scream. How Shelby has risen to such a high place is beyond me. But, then again, if there’s one thing she excels at—aside from manufactured relatability and obnoxiously perfect hair, it’s getting people to buy into her bullshit.
And now I have to pretend I don’tcompletelydespise her.
“Will do.”
“Jackson’s going too.”
I swallow down the protest. “With all due respect?—”
“Make it happen.”
