But it isn’t Judy who steals my breath and makes my blood run cold.
Sitting to her right, finally lifting his gaze from the files, is Jake. The same Jake who shattered my heart into a thousand pieces and walked away like it was nothing.
For one stunned beat, the room tilts. His eyes widen with recognition, and the panic inside me mirrors it, rising fast and savage. Of all the places. Of all the days. He’s here, already seated at the interview table, like the universe glanced at my stress levels and decided they clearly weren’t high enough yet.
I open my mouth to breathe, but my lungs stutter like they’ve forgotten their job. Inside my head, a voice screams to run—to turn around and bolt before this gets any worse. If someone told me I’d run into Jake here, I’d have thought him certifiable.
Jake as my boss.
The thought lands like a sucker punch. I would have to report to him, sit through meetings while he looks at me the way he used to…and wow, no. That would suck. Spectacularly.
“Miss Lake?” The unfamiliar man to Judy’s left cuts straight through the roar in my head, his voice sharp enough to slice right through my panic. I blink, hard, dragging myself to the chair in front of them. I’m pretty sure he introduced himself. I’m also pretty sure my brain threw his name out the window.
“Is everything okay?” he asks, studying me. “You seem a little…lost.”
I swallow, trying to lubricate a throat that suddenly feels like I’ve been chewing drywall, and nod like any of this is normal. Like my ex isn’t sitting at the table. “I’m great,” I manage. “Super excited to be here.” Not sure how the lie came out, but my smile holds.
Yes. I’m perfectly fine.
Not even close. I should apologize for wasting everyone’s time and sprint for the exit before my body spontaneously combusts from secondhand embarrassment.
But I can’t. I won’t. Not when my teacher is the reason I’m sitting here in the first place, not when she believed in me enough to open this door. I refuse to let her down.
Judy smiles, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person,” she says. “Your campaign proposal from last year’s competition was impressive. Great ideas.”
“Thank you,” I manage, fighting to keep my voice level while my fingers clamp around my portfolio like it’s the only thing keeping me afloat. “It was a fun challenge.” I even manage a small smile, as if my ticker isn’t trying to sprint out of my chest.
Last year in school, as our final assignment, we were split into three groups that competed to develop a marketing campaign for EcoLume, a solar-powered camping lantern that doubled as a phone charger. My team won.
Did we ever.
Not because we had the flashiest presentation or the most complex strategy, but because we understood people wanted to feel heroic in small ways. While other teams focused on technical specs, we built a campaign around “moments of connection” in the wilderness. I can still feel that rush when the judgesannounced our victory—my heart swelling with vindication. This is what I was born to do.
Jake clears his throat, glances down at his notes with infuriating levels of calm professionalism, and then asks, in a voice far too casual for the full-scale emotional apocalypse detonating inside of me, “Please, tell us about yourself.”
Like he isn’t personally responsible for turning my pulse into a war drum. Like my past isn’t sitting across from me in a tailored suit, radiating unfinished business and excellent tailoring. He does look good in a suit.
What am I thinking?
I shoot him a quick, pointed glare. Jerk. He should already know everything about me, down to the way I take my coffee and the way my heart used to crack open when he smiled.
But I refuse to let him rattle me, not in the most important interview of my life. I draw my shoulders back, paste on my most professional smile, and launch into my rehearsed pitch like it’s a lifeline.
“Well, I grew up in this town,” I begin, voice steady. “It was here that I first got into marketing by selling lemonade outside Meridian High.”
I let the memory settle, sweet and bright. “The neighborhood boys used to stop by after their football games to buy some.”
I pause on purpose, letting my gaze drift to Jake and stay there. He shifts in his chair like he’s suddenly discovered the seat is made of thorns.
“That,” I add softly, “was my first taste of consumer demand.”
Judy chuckles, a rich sound that momentarily cuts through the tension in my body.
The man to her left leans forward, elbows resting on the polished table. “What about college? What drew you to marketing?”
I focus on him now, grateful for the distraction, and my voice finally finds its steady rhythm. “I’ve always been drawn to storytelling,” I say, letting the truth anchor me. “Marketing is a way to tell stories, whether it’s about a brand or about the way a product fits into someone’s life.”
I keep my smile professional, my hands still. “I majored in Marketing and Business, and during my internships I worked on campaigns that blended creativity with data, the heart and the numbers.”
