Chapter Two
NATALIA
The conference room is modern, all glass and steel, every chair filled except mine. The memo said, "Emergency meeting. All agents are required to attend."
That means whatever this is… it’s serious.
I take my seat without drawing attention, pulling my laptop from my bag. Around the table, everyone wears the same careful expression—alert but not alarmed. This isn't a brainstorming session or a routine check-in.
This is the kind of meeting where careers subtly change direction, familiar faces disappear from the break room, and parking spot nameplates get blacked out until a new name replaces the old.
I catch sight of Carey Von in my peripheral vision, the rep from the consulting firm that was brought in two months ago to assess efficiency and cut the fat.
She sits near the head of the table, perfectly composed in a tailored navy suit, her tablet resting in front of her, full of evidence she's been collecting against each of us.
We have history, Carey and I. We competed for the same internship in our senior year. The kind that guaranteed a pipeline into firms like this one. I got it. She received a formal rejection email.
I earned it. I worked my ass off on that proposal, pulled three all-nighters in a row, and researched every client the firm had ever represented. None of that mattered to Carey because she never believed that I was a better recruit than her.
According to mutual friends—the ones who still talk to both of us—Carey has her own version of events.
In her version, I only won because I’m prettier—because Professor Walsh bought my sob story about my dad leaving when I was two and about being raised by a single mother who worked doubles to keep us afloat.
Because Walsh either felt sorry for me or wanted to fuck me.
It was never about merit. Never about the work.
She forgets that the intern committee was made up of five professors, three of whom were women. Never in my life has being abandoned by my father at two years old and being raised by a single mother been a flex or given me an advantage.
The accusation still stings, years later, a hot wire I have to actively suppress. Because I earned that internship. I deserved it.
Carey's resentment runs deeper than professional rivalry. It's personal, and she’s still bitter. The kind that ferments over years until it becomes something toxic. Now she's here, tablet in hand, with the power to end my career with a single assessment report.
I’ve seen the way she’s watched me during meetings over the last two months, cataloging every misstep, every hesitation. She doesn't just want me to fail. She wants to be the one holding the knife when I do.
As if I needed more trouble after my last account went up in literal flames. Though, being fair, I didn't light anything on fire—my client did that, sealing both our fates. Getting your client under control is part of our job.
Gabriella Pollock, the PR firm's CEO, strides in exactly on time, heels clacking against marble tile.
Dark brown hair in a tight bun, winged liner sharper than her stilettos, tablet tucked under her arm like a weapon.
Designer power suit matching her million-dollar salary. She doesn't bother with small talk.
"Q4 closed strong," she says, tapping the screen behind her. Numbers flash up—curves, revenue upticks, client retention percentages that look reassuring if you don't know how thin the margin for error actually is. "From the outside, the firm looks healthy."
She pauses, causing my stomach to tighten.
"But healthy doesn't mean untouchable. Now that it’s January, it’s time to start this first quarter out strong."
No one moves.
"We'll be conducting performance assessments in four weeks," she continues. "Individual outcomes, risk exposure, client success."
Four weeks? Is she insane? Performance assessments to determine which agents to cut… somehow I knew this was coming.
She didn’t use the word "cuts," but we can all read between the lines. Reading between the lines is what makes us good at our jobs. We've all been trained as PR agents to decipher the meaning behind the words.
Carey steps forward. This is exactly what she was brought on to do two months ago, and the slight curve of her lips proves she's perfectly in her element to deliver the final blow.
"We're restructuring workflows and prioritizing efficiency," she adds. "Each of you will be assigned a case this quarter. How you handle it will be evaluated during your assessment."
Carey's gaze sweeps the room, pausing just a fraction longer on me. Her expression isn't cruel, but it's not kind either. She just looks prepared and serious… and perhaps the tiniest bit satisfied.
An agent in a different sector pipes up. "And these assessments will determine if we keep our jobs?"
He just asked the question everyone's wondering.
"This isn't about punishment," Gabriella says quickly. "It's about alignment. We want to set everyone up for success. The company only succeeds if you do. It doesn't benefit anyone to see an agent dropped outside their element."
I want to believe her, and I almost do, but this industry is cutthroat, and no one brings in a firm to gauge efficiency for no reason.
"Carey will be managing assignments," Gabriella continues, turning slightly. "She'll be pairing cases based on strengths and experience."
I feel the weight of that statement settle in my chest. Carey gets to decide who gets the easy wins and who gets the career killers. And she's going to enjoy every second of it.
Gabriella closes her tablet. "I'll leave you to it."
Just like that, she's gone, heels clicking down the hallway, already onto her next obligation. The door shut behind her, and the weight of what she had just dropped on us settled into the room.
Carey stands, unhurried. She never rushes. She likes being watched and maybe even feared a little.
"All right," she says, lifting a neat stack of slim folders from the center of the table as if she's handing out golden tickets. "The next four weeks are going to move fast. Let's get you your assignments. You'll want to connect with your new clients as soon as possible."
She walks around the room, assigning folders like some fucked-up version of duck, duck, goose, entirely too satisfied as she does it.
With each hand off, she drops the name of the client, their background, and a quick synopsis. Low-risk clients. Corporate cleanups. Reputation maintenance jobs that won't make headlines.
Safe work that will look stellar during a job-ending assessment.
As the stack dwindles, I start to hold my breath.
I watch as each folder leaves Carey's hands, my pulse ticking faster with every one that passes me by. Until there's only one left.
This one is obviously thicker than the rest and heavier looking, too, as Carey inches closer. Then she walks right past me, causing my stomach to turn.
"Wait," I say before I can stop myself. "What about me?"
Carey pauses, glancing over her shoulder as if she'd forgotten I existed.
"Oh," she says lightly. "This one? No, we'll find you something else."
Something in her tone set off every alarm in my body. She has no intention of finding me something else. I can hear it in her voice, see it on her face. I need that file.
"You only have one left," I say evenly. "Whatever it is, I can handle it."
Carey looks at me, eyebrows lifting as if she were hoping I would insist. "Are you sure? It's another athlete. That's proven not to be your strong suit."
She's calling me out in front of all my co-workers.
As if I, or anyone else in here, needed a reminder of my last client.
A teenage-gymnast-turned-pyromaniac who set a training facility on fire with a vape pen she "accidentally" dropped in the towel bin.
This was after she'd already been kicked out of another facility for a similar incident.
I'd worked to clean up her image and get a new trainer to take her on.
She refused to take responsibility or issue a formal apology.
Gabriella fired her as a client.
I promised that from that moment on, I'd never take on another athlete. They’re too unruly, too difficult to manage, and too cocky for their own good.
"I'm sure," I reply. "I can do it."
Carey looks up at everyone else in the conference room. "Thank you for your time. You are all dismissed." Then she starts toward the door.
I grab my bag and laptop and run after her, pushing through the conference room door behind her and hurrying past the corporate offices.
"Carey, I need that file."
"This client is difficult." She doesn't slow down. I can only imagine how much she’s enjoying me chasing her to keep my job. "He’s uncooperative and high-risk. A real career killer if mishandled." She turns into her office as I follow her in.
She walks around to her side of the desk, laying down her tablet and the file I am practically begging for.
I walk up to the other side of her desk, facing her, resting my fingertips on its edge. "I'm used to difficult cases. It won't be a problem."
Her eyes gleam. She doesn't think I'll rein this client in.
"This potential client gives a new meaning to the word difficult.
But…" I can see her mind working. "The commission is triple what any other case this quarter would bring in. This would be a huge win for the firm if you pull it off, and a huge win for me since I gave you an almost impossible case that Gabriella was going to toss out. I’m up for a promotion.
" Obviously, her performance here means something back at her firm, too. Now she’s weighing which would be more gratifying—watching me fail and get fired, or watching me succeed so she looks good for her own promotion.
"It's a chance to redeem yourself. Show us what you're really capable of before the cuts. "
The cuts. She finally says the word out loud. I can see it in her eyes—she doesn't think I have a shot in hell.
I don't look away. I don't blink.