Chapter 2
Chapter Two
We followed Marcus to the executive conference room, where serious looking LuxeLife executives sat around a polished table. Already judging me.
“Please, take a seat.” Marcus directed Parker and me toward a pair of empty chairs, then leaned in close.
“Oh, and Miss Li, one more thing before we get started.” His voice was barely a whisper, low enough that only I could hear.
“I’m the one that recommended Victoria consider you.
” His smile grew wider, his teeth somehow whiter. “So don’t fuck this up.”
Forcing a smile to my face, I noticed the stain on my skirt had dried into a pattern that looked disturbingly like the state of Florida. “Right.”
“So. Marcus,” barked a voice entering the room. “Is this the new social media miracle worker you were telling me about?”
Victoria Sterling strode to the head of the table, CEO of LuxeLife Resorts and Spas.
The kind of woman who made Cruella DeVille look warm and cuddly.
The type who probably kept her skin wrinkle free by drinking the blood of kittens.
Everything about her was sharp angles and clean lines.
When her Louboutins struck the floor, each click emitted a tiny sonic boom.
“You must be Samantha,” she said, extending a hand adorned with a diamond that could single-handedly fund world famine relief. At first, I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to shake it or kiss it. I went with shaking.
Victoria took her seat at the head of the table.
Looking through the expansive windows, it looked like we were floating in the clouds.
“I’m going to be honest with you here, Samantha.
Before Marcus showed me your little videos or posts or whatever you call them, I had no idea who you were.
But Marcus tells me this is what people pay attention to these days, for whatever reason. And now here we are.”
An assistant scurried in to refill Victoria’s sparkling water, then disappeared just as fast. Parker and I exchanged a flash of eye contact that communicated an entire conversation.
We’re screwed.
Stay calm.
I am calm.
You don’t look calm.
I have to pee.
Was that a pelican that flew past the window?
Focus!
Victoria took a sip of her sparkling water, then settled back in her chair. “So go on then, Samantha. Wow me.”
This was it. The moment of truth.
Our presentation packets were a hot mess after the lobby explosion, so I shook my head when Parker reached into his bag to pull them out.
I was going to have to wow Victoria Sterling and her executive team all on my own.
Good thing I had spent the past week of sleepless nights going over the pitch again and again in my head.
I took a deep breath, then looked around the table, meeting each pair of expectant eyes staring back at me.
These weren’t just expensive suits. These were the gatekeepers.
The key masters standing guard to everything I’d been working toward.
Not just the financial security, though that certainly mattered.
And not just the subscriber numbers, though those counted too.
No. It was more than that. Much more.
This was about proving I could do more than post pretty pictures and cute captions.
This was about proving my parents, my friends, and everyone else who’d been politely waiting for me to “come to my senses” that they were wrong.
That their daughter hadn’t thrown away a Stanford education and generations of family sacrifice just to take selfies for a living.
Another deep breath. It was time to put up or shut up. Prove it or lose it. Do or die.
“Ms. Sterling, Mr. Wiles, executives of LuxeLife,” I began, both relieved and surprised my voice still functioned.
“Most people would probably come in here with a bunch of fancy presentations. Dazzle you with the competitor analyses they spent all night stapling together. Wow you with the detailed subscriber trends they spent three hours at the UPS store printing out.”
Parker mouthed the word “sorry.”
“But I’m not going to do that.” I leaned forward, chin held high.
“Because I am not your run-of-the-mill corporate presenter. Dependent upon a well-organized series of PowerPoint slides to keep herself from rambling. I don’t have a fancy MBA.
Actually, I have a partial degree in art history that my parents still haven’t forgiven me for. But that’s a topic for another day.”
A man in an Armani suit was playing with his phone under the table. A woman in a bright pink blazer cleared her throat. Victoria’s left eyebrow arched so high it nearly left her forehead.
“What I do have is an authentic connection with real people. And that’s why you’re going to hire me.
” I cued Parker, who’d taken advantage of my brilliant stalling techniques to bluetooth the conference room’s Wi-Fi to my phone.
I lifted it in the air, like a sword swinging William Wallace signaling a charge.
With all eyes on me, I hit play. The gigantic conference room video display flickered to life, showing a video of a no name hole-in-the-wall taqueria in East Los Angeles.
“This is Dona Maria,” I said, my voice louder.
Less shaky. On screen, an older Hispanic woman rolled tortillas by hand behind the chipped tile counter.
“Before I posted this, she was about to lose her family restaurant. Now she has lines around the block and hired her nieces to manage the social media accounts I set up for her.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Parker pecking away at the keys on his laptop. He must have hacked into the room’s audio setup because dramatic music started playing over the surround sound speakers.
I swiped to another post. “This is Jin’s Bubble Tea in Korea town.
He named a special drink after me. The ‘Bubble Trouble.’ Why he insisted on using the word ‘trouble’ is not important right now.
What is important is that it became his bestseller after I posted about it.
Not because I’m polished. But because people trust what I recommend. ”
I took another deep breath. A few heads were nodding.
Armani suit guy stopped playing with his phone.
“People don’t follow me because I show them a fantasy life,” I said.
“They follow me because I’m real. I tell them where the bathroom is hidden in Venice Beach.
I show them which food truck has the best refried beans even though they’re in a sketchy parking lot in the industrial section of Burbank.
I warn them when the cute new bistro serves mediocre, overpriced food. ”
An executive with slicked-back hair leaned forward, a fake smile fixed on his face. “That’s charming, Miss Li, but our clientele isn’t interested in food trucks. They want champagne wishes and caviar dreams. They want the fantasy.”
“Do they, though? Or is that what you think they want because that’s what you’ve always crammed down their throats?”
Parker, miracle worker that he was, had somehow juxtaposed my gritty, authentic, real content with LuxeLife’s corporate website, which was filled with polished photography that looked fake and posed.
In my posts, people were smiling, laughing, living their best life.
The LuxeLife people looked like actors and models getting paid to flash their pretty teeth.
“Your target demographic isn’t just wealthy baby boomers anymore,” I pressed.
“It’s millennials who’ve finally made it.
Despite the odds. GenZ trust fund babies.
Tech entrepreneurs who wear hoodies to board meetings.
They have money to spend, but they’re not impressed by the same things their parents were.
Certainly not their grandparents. And not the things you’re trying to sell them. ”
Slicked back hair guy made a snort. Others were whispering and shaking their heads. Marcus leaned over and whispered into Victoria’s ear, then glanced toward the door. Probably wondering how long it would take the security guards to rush in and toss us out.
“Actually, you know what,” said the pink suited woman. “She has a point.”
“I do?” I asked.
“She does?” asked Marcus at exactly the same time.
Pink blazer girl nodded. She was, by far, the youngest one in the room, other than me and Parker. She made cutesy eyes in his direction. “Mind if I take over?”
“Be my guest.” Parker’s cheeks turned the same color as Pink Blazer girl’s wardrobe.
She poked a few swipes on her tablet and took over the screen share, displaying lots of colored lines crossing up and down on a graph. “Our customer research shows exactly that trend. Our demographics have been skewing younger every year.”
“To be fair,” interjected a man with a voice like he narrated golf tournaments on the side, “Miss Li’s background isn’t exactly aligned with luxury travel. She said herself she started reviewing hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurants? That’s quite a leap to our five-star properties.”
I felt my face flush. Not from embarrassment. From being pissed off. “Is there something wrong with Mexican restaurants?” I asked.
The room fell silent as everyone’s attention shifted from me to him. “No, no, of course not,” Golf Voice backpedaled. “But it’s a different market segment entirely.”
“You mean affordable?”
“No. It’s just, well, you know …”
“Or is your problem that my heritage is Chinese, so you find it incongruous that I’d appreciate Mexican cuisine?” It wasn’t the first time some suit had made assumptions based on ethnic stereotypes.
Golf Voice’s face went the color of undercooked chicken. “I didn’t mean …”
“You know what’s funny?” I cut in. “Asian Americans can enjoy Mexican food. Wealthy people can enjoy street tacos. And believe it or not, people who drop a thousand dollars a night on a LuxeLife hotel still want to know where the locals eat.”
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