Page 71 of The Maine Event

“Okay, thanks, Jenna. I’ll be right there.”

I smooth my silk blouse and quickly check my face in a compact. An impromptu summons from the higher-ups rarely bodes well. My mind races with possibilities as I make my way down the hallway. Have I slipped up somehow? Overlooked a crucial detail on the Harcourt account?

I pause outside the imposing mahogany doors, steeling myself. Whatever awaits me on the other side, I’ll handle it with the poise and professionalism that got me this far. I turn the polished brass handle, and step inside, ready to face the music.

I step into the boardroom, my heels sinking into the plush carpet. The partners are already assembled, seated around the expansive glass table like a corporate war council. At the head sits Crystal Channing herself, impeccably coiffed and poised, her steely gaze fixed on me.

“Rachel, please have a seat,” she says, gesturing to an empty chair.

I settle in, trying to read the room. Tense anticipation hangs in the air, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. Excitement?

“We have some news,” Crystal begins, her red-lacquered nails tapping against the table. “GreenShoots has served out their six-month notice period with Overt PR, as of this morning, they’re a Channing Gabriel client. It’s official.”

A wave of relief washes over me, followed by a surge of pride. We did it. Months of grueling work, endless revisions, and cutthroat negotiations have finally paid off.

“Congratulations are in order,” chimes in Ethan, the director of accounts. “This is a huge win for the firm, and for you, Rachel.”

I nod graciously, but inside I’m puzzled. Surely, they didn’t call me in here just to offer congratulations?

Crystal, as if sensing my confusion, leans forward. “We wanted to acknowledge your instrumental role in securing this account. Your strategic vision and tireless dedication laid the groundwork for our success.”

“Even if Zoe delivered the final pitch,” adds Helen, her tone a mix of praise and something sharper. A reminder, perhaps, that my protégé is nipping at my heels.

“Of course,” I reply smoothly. “It was a team effort. I’m just glad we could deliver for the client.”

“This account opens up exciting new avenues for Channing Gabriel,” says Crystal, her eyes gleaming. “And we have you to thank, Rachel. Your hard work hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

There it is again, that undercurrent of anticipation. I feel like I’m on the cusp of something big, but I can’t quite grasp what it is.

“In fact,” Crystal continues, “we’ve been discussing your future with the firm…”

She slides a document across the table, the Channing Gabriel logo embossed at the top. My heart rate kicks up a notch as I scan the header: Partnership Offer.

The room erupts in applause, a cacophony of congratulations and well-wishes. But the sound seems distant, muffled by the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears.

A partnership. The pinnacle of achievement in this world of glass and steel, of power suits and boardroom battles. The validation of every late night, every missed weekend, every sacrifice I’ve made at the altar of my career.

My fingers trace the crisp edges of the document, the weight of it suddenly heavy in my hands. This is everything I’ve worked for, the logical next step in my meticulously planned trajectory.

So why does a flicker of doubt stir in my chest?

Crystal’s voice cuts through my reverie. “This is a momentous day, Rachel. We’re thrilled to officially welcome you into the partnership ranks.”

She extends a pen, an expectant smile on her lips. “Just sign on the dotted line, and let’s make it official.”

I stare at the blank space awaiting my signature, the weight of the decision settling on my shoulders. The rational part of me knows this is an incredible opportunity, the culmination of years of hard work and dedication.

But another part, a small, insistent voice I’ve long ignored, seeds doubts. Is this really what I want? Is this the path to fulfillment, to a life well-lived?

Images flash through my mind: the sterile emptiness of my high-rise apartment, the wilting plant on my desk, a silent testament to my neglect. The missed birthdays, the foregone untaken paid time off, the relationships left to wither on the vine of my ambition.

And then, unbidden, a memory surfaces. The boat house by the river, the warmth of Dan’s smile, the sound of Chloe’slaughter. That door is certainly closed, but the experience gave me a glimpse of a different life, one where success is measured not in titles and accounts, but in moments of connection and joy.

My hand hovers over the page, the pen suddenly heavy in my grip. The eyes of the partners bore into me, expectant, eager. They see a rising star, a valuable asset to be acquired.

But do they see me? The real Rachel, beneath the polished veneer and the impressive resume?

The seconds tick by, each one an eternity. The air feels charged, the silence thick with anticipation.

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