A breath. “One of my favorites was a social media push for a local nonprofit. We doubled engagement by centering personal stories from a financially underprivileged community, not just what they needed, but who they were. People don’t connect to statistics. They connect to faces.”
Judy nods, approval settling into her expression, and for the first time a strand of her perfectly coiffed hair slips slightly out of place, as if even she’s human beneath the legend. “Pam showed me what you’re capable of,” she says. “She’s the one who steered me toward you.”
Miss Pamela Reed. My favorite professor at Columbia University, queen of a prestigious marketing program and the kind of woman who could dismantle a campaign with two sentences and a raised eyebrow. I had no idea she was friends with Judy Hawthorne until that unexpected email from Lantern Bridge landed in my inbox, inviting me to interview.
When I showed it to Miss Reed, she didn’t even pretend to be surprised. She simply confessed she’d reached out to Judy about me.
My jaw nearly hit the floor. Because apparently, I’d been recommended to a marketing legend like I was a name worth remembering.
But then Jake leans forward, forearms on the desk, and his voice is infuriatingly neutral, like we’re strangers who’venever met. “How do you handle high-pressure situations when everything falls apart?” His gaze flicks to my portfolio, not my face. “The marketing world can be unforgiving.”
I don’t look at him when I say, “I’ve navigated my share of unexpected collapses, professionally and otherwise.”
I straighten, fingers pressing into the leather of my portfolio until the texture anchors me. “When things shatter without warning, I assess the damage, salvage what matters, and rebuild something stronger.”
Then I lift my chin and finally meet his gaze. “I have no trouble trashing elements of a campaign that have proven worthless,” I add, voice calm, “even when others insist they still hold value.”
I notice a muscle tick beneath the skin of Jake’s jaw before I glance back at Judy.
After a few more standard questions, I answer on autopilot, my mouth moving while my mind stays tangled elsewhere. Then Judy rises with graceful authority, the kind that quiets a room without effort, signaling the end. “We’ll be in touch soon,” she says, smiling. “It’s been a pleasure, Sarah.”
“The pleasure’s mine, ma’am,” I reply, shaking hands all around the table, but I deliberately avoid meeting Jake’s gaze.
As I return to the elevator, the pressure in my chest lifts, like bubbles rising after uncorking champagne. I can breathe again.
The questions they asked weren’t the ones I’d spent nights rehearsing until my jaw ached. They were simpler. Cleaner. More direct. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe this was more of a formality than inquisition.
And then reality tilts back into place. The only dark cloud on my horizon now is Jake. The absolute last person on earth I want as a coffee-break companion.
I’m halfway through the lobby, heading for the exit, when I hear footsteps quickening behind me.
“Sarah, wait!” Jake calls.
I don’t look back. I just pick up my pace, hoping he vanishes. But his stride eats up the distance effortlessly, and then his voice is beside me.
“Hi.”
That’s the best he can do? After four years of silence, he offershilike we saw each other yesterday.
I pivot to face him, smoothing my expression into calm, careful neutrality—Switzerland during a global conflict. “Hey,” I say, sounding as pathetic as him.
“You...look great, Sarah,” he says awkwardly, rocking slightly on his heels.
It takes every ounce of self-control not to knee him where it would do the most damage and leave him folded on the lobby floor. But I keep my smile tight, my hands at my sides, my fury locked deep inside.
“I’m busy. Gotta go,” I say, and then I’m moving, fast, practically sprinting for the revolving door. Better to leave now, before my resentment gets the better of me.
Once I’m outside, the fresh air hits my lungs like a reset button. I dig my phone out of my purse with shaking fingers and fire off a text to Maisie and Claire, our universal drop-everything signal:iceberg dead ahead.
And the truth I’ve been dodging all morning surfaces, ugly and undeniable. Due to a certain personal inconvenience, even though it’s been my dream to work at Lantern Bridge ever since I learned marketing wasn’t just billboards and jingles, some small part of me now hopes I don’t get the offer.
How sad is that?
Chapter 4
The warm, inviting scent of fresh-baked pastries ambushes me the second I push through the door of Maple & Steam. My nostrils flare, drawing in vanilla-laced air that makes the world feel softer. The café hasn’t changed in four years: the same rustic wooden tables, the same chalkboard menu with loopy handwriting, the same barista with the septum piercing who’s really good at memorizing orders.
I join the line, studying the menu. My fingers tap an anxious rhythm against my thigh while I inch forward, one step at a time. The caramel cappuccino used to be my weekend ritual. Today, I don’t think even the rich scent of freshly ground coffee can quiet the tornado in my mind. It just spins and spins, throwing Jake’s face and that interview table into the air like debris.
