Missy? Seriously? I clench my jaw, my nails digging into my palms as I fight to maintain my composure. I can practically feel my chances of securing this partnership slipping through my fingers with every patronizing word out of Adler’s mouth.
I take a deep breath, determined not to let his blatant sexism and narrow-mindedness get the best of me. “Mr. Adler, I strongly believe that Harcourt Foods needs to adapt to changing consumer preferences. If you’ll just take a closer look at my proposal…”
But he’s already standing up, buttoning his suit jacket with an air of finality. “I think we’re done here, Ms. Holmes. Thanks for your… insights, but I think we’ll stick to what we know works.”
The dismissal stings like a slap. I sit there, stunned, as he strides out of the room without so much as a backward glance. The heavy door closes behind him with a thud, leaving me alone in the cavernous boardroom, my carefully crafted presentation still glowing on the screen.
I slump back in my chair, my chest tight with frustration and humiliation. I can’t believe I read the situation so wrong. Ithought I had it in the bag. That they’d be begging to innovate. To partner. To win. Instead, I’ve been laughed out of the room by a misogynistic dinosaur who can’t see past his own ego.
Disappointment settles like a lead weight in my stomach as the reality sinks in. I’ve blown it. All that work, all that preparation, for nothing. What am I going to tell the team back at CGPR? How can I face them after this epic failure?
I try to gather my composure. I can’t let this setback break me. I’ve faced worse than this and come out swinging.
But even as I give myself the pep talk, I can’t shake the nagging sense that this isn’t just about Harcourt Foods. It’s about everything—my career, my life, my priorities. I feel adrift and it’s frightening. Suddenly I’m struck with the thought that if GreenShoots hadn’t surprised us with the pitch request, I’d be doing camping things with my sister and her family, and I might even be enjoying it. I just want to retreat to my motel room, close the drapes, and lie on my bed. But first, I have to get out of this damn boardroom with my head held high.
I gather my things and stride out of the boardroom, my chin lifted in defiance even as my heart sinks. I can feel the VP’s smug gaze boring into my back as he hovers near reception, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.
As I navigate the wood-paneled corridors of Harcourt Foods’ headquarters, my mind races with competing thoughts and emotions. Anger at the VP’s dismissive attitude. Frustration at the missed opportunity. And a gnawing sense of self-doubt that I can’t quite shake.
I pause in front of a floor-to-ceiling window by reception, staring out at the freeway and the Portland cityscape beyond. The city seems to pulse with energy and possibility, a stark contrast to the suffocating disappointment that engulfs me.
I need to focus on damage control, on finding a way to salvage this mess and prove my worth to Helen and the rest of the agency’s executive team.
NINE
Back at the motel, I retreat to my room. I barely have the energy to check the news on my phone. Mount Spurr is still spewing ash and air traffic is still grounded across the United States. It looks like I’ll be here for some time to come. Maybe Mom’s suggestion to drive the eleven hundred miles to join them wasn’t such a bad one.
I stare out the window, watching the rain cascade down the glass in steady rivulets. The gloomy weather perfectly matches my mood. I can’t help but wallow in self-pity, feeling utterly alone and beaten. Whatever charm this little family-run motel held has disappeared, along with my humor.
For the first time since arriving, I’m thinking that if I have to be stuck in this city for whoever-knows-how-long, I should really be doing it in five-star comfort, with an on-site spa and room service. It also doesn’t help that Dan works here and there’s every chance we could bump into each other.
Instead of dissipating, my annoyance with what he said, and implied, has actually increased overnight and is now bordering on rage. No, I’m not a parent, Dan. But I am a woman, and I was once a frightened little girl growing into a teenager. Just likeChloe. Confused, scared, and overwhelmed, as I tried to make sense of the world and my place in it.
There’s a reason I don’t do ‘me time,’ because it gets dark, fast. Better to stay busy. Better not to dwell.
Despite all my professional accomplishments, I find myself seriously considering if I am indeed an imposter. It’s the only logical explanation. I’m scared to look too deeply at my past successes, because truth be told, maybe it was just a case of right place, right time, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for that sort of hard truth. Of course, I’ve convinced myself that my ability to win new business was down to my fastidious research, and my obsession with getting into the mindset of my client’s customers. But, you know what, maybe it’s because the team at Channing Gabriel has built up such a great reputation, that I just have to walk into the room and manage not to fall over, and they will become a client regardless. Maybe they aren’t signing up because of me, but in spite of me.
What is the opportunity debit of this supposed success? The long hours, the sacrifices, the missed opportunities for genuine personal connection. I’ve poured everything into my career, but at what cost? Losing out to Zoe because of an admin snafu, despite the months of groundwork I did to win GreenShoots. Hell, we wouldn’t have even been invited into the room to pitch if it hadn’t been for my efforts getting Channing Gabriel on their radar. The emptiness inside me grows with each passing minute, and I think for the first time in my life that I might be on the verge of completely losing my shit.
My phone buzzes, jolting me out of my melancholy musings.
It’s a text from Dan:
Hey Rachel, I feel terrible about how things were left last night. Please let me apologize. In person, not by text.
I hesitate, my finger hovering over the screen. Part of me wants to decline, to retreat further into my solitude. I really don’t feel like putting a brave face on it all. Not today. But another part of me, the part that is becoming unhinged looking at these four walls, urges me to accept. After all, what do I have to lose? It’s not like this week could get any worse.
I type out my reply:
Sure, why not. Meet you in the lobby in 10?
Thank you. See you there.
With a sigh, I drag myself off the bed and slip into a pair of flats. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror—tired eyes, slumped shoulders, a far cry from the polished PR executive I usually present to the world. But right now, I can’t muster the energy to put on that mask.
I grab my purse and head out the door, steeling myself for Dan’s grand apology. As I step into the elevator, while I firmly believe that everyone deserves a second chance, I can’t help but wonder if this is a mistake. But I really do need to get out of the room, and some company, even if it’s just an apologetic Dan, is too tempting to resist.
The doors slide open, and I spot Dan waiting in the lobby, his hands shoved into his pockets. He looks up as I approach, offering a tentative smile.