THE ANSWER
EMMA
The navy woolof my pencil skirt has become a weight, the fine weave scratchy against my thighs as I smooth the fabric for the hundredth time. My palms are slick. The air backstage smells of dust and expensive perfume, a claustrophobic cage before the release. Beyond the heavy velvet curtain, the audience is a low, predatory hum.
“Breathe, Em,” Zoe says, squeezing my arm. Her grin is a bright, defiant anchor. “You’ll own that stage. Your tech strategies will have them begging for more.”
I offer a tight smile, willing my heart back into my chest. “I'd be satisfied staying upright in these heels. It's a tragedy that Vanessa's flu is my debut.”
“Please. You could do this in your sleep,” Zoe laughs, the sound muffled against the heavy thrum of conversation from the hall. “Even if those stilettos are technically lethal weapons.”
The tension in my shoulders won’t break. My mouth is sand. I pull a compact mirror from my blazer pocket and check the corners of my lips. The red lipstick is thick and bold. War paint. If my stomach is twisting, no one will see it past the color.
“Is it even?” I ask.
“Perfect power red,” Zoe says with a sharp wink. “Go out there and slay.”
I take a shallow breath. The facilitator’s voice booms through the speakers, an amplified welcome to the Global Marketing Summit. My palms are damp again, and I swipe them down the wool of my skirt, grateful for the dark camouflage.
This is the moment.My first real footprint as a lead for GVM. I’ve spent every waking hour this week buried in these slides. It was easier to obsess over data transitions than to stare at the phantom vibration of my phone, waiting for a message that never came. James' last text still sits in my notifications like a scar that won't fade.
I roll my shoulders back and straighten my spine.
The intro video begins, the bass vibrating through the floorboards. My pulse hammers against my ribs. I've agonized over every syllable, every infographic, cursed Thomas Hawthorn for putting me in the line of fire as a substitute. My perfectionism is a fever, and this is the breaking point.
I step into the light.
The brightness is a physical wall for a second, blinding and hot. Hundreds of eyes settle on me, a collective weight that thins the air. As my vision clears, I scan the front rows.
My breath hitches.
Third row. That stillness. Those broad, uncompromising shoulders.
The floor tilts.It can’t be him.Of all the moments for my mind to conjure a ghost, it had to be now. I've spent the last week calling myself every kind of fool for opening up to him. I showed him the cracks. I let him see me fall apart. For a single heartbeat that night, I believed he cared.
Then, silence. A week of nothing.
I force my eyes to the teleprompter. My voice is thin, but it holds. “Good morning, everyone. Thank you for joining us as weexplore the future of sustainable marketing. I’m Emma Sinclair, one of the leads at GVM, and I’m thrilled to share our vision.”
Outside, I’m poised. Inside, a shipwreck.
I channel the nerves into passion, leaning on the years of discipline that have never failed me. I gesture toward the infographics, movements fluid and practiced. The audience leans in. I catch the ripple of laughter after my first quip, and the rhythm finally finds me.
“At GVM, we believe in authentic connections,” I say, my gaze sweeping the room. I let my eyes drift back to the third row. The charcoal suit, the frame leaning forward with an intensity that makes the rest of the room blur. The stage lights mask his features, but I know that silhouette.
I find my stride. The audience nods, pens moving over pads. Despite the distraction in the third row, I am winning.
“Our approach isn’t just about data,” I conclude, my voice ringing with a confidence I finally feel. “It’s about the human heart behind every decision. People buy from people.”
The applause hits like a wave. I step back, a real smile breaking through.
“Thank you,” I say, dipping my head. “Are there any questions?”
Hands go up. I handle the first few with ease, talking through analytics and global reach. Each answer builds my armor higher.
Then, a hand in the third row rises. My heart stutters, a skipped beat that sends a jolt of adrenaline through my limbs.
“Yes, the gentleman in the charcoal suit,” I say. I hope my voice does not betray the tremor in my soul.
