Chapter 5
Elevator Encounters & Impossible Decisions
~REVERIE~
The Evergreen Media Collective office sits on the third floor of a sleek glass building in downtown Oakridge Hollow—which sounds fancy until you remember that "downtown" here means a three-block radius and "sleek glass building" means the only structure taller than four stories in the entire town.
Still. It's impressive.
The kind of place that makes you check your reflection in the shiny elevator doors and wonder if you're dressed appropriately.
I'm definitely not dressed appropriately.
I went for "professional but still me"—which translated to a cream-colored sweater dress that hits just above my knees, thick tights with tiny snowflakes on them because I'm nothing if not on-brand, and my favorite brown ankle boots that I've worn so much the heel is starting to separate from the sole.
My honey-gold hair with its orange tips is pulled into a messy bun that I've tried to make look intentional rather than "I woke up with fifteen minutes to get ready. "
Minimal makeup—just enough to look alive after yesterday's reading marathon—and the dangly snowflake earrings I got from the dollar store that make me happy every time I catch sight of them.
Professional? Debatable. Me? Absolutely.
The lobby smells like expensive coffee and the particular scent of new carpet mixed with that generic "professional building" air freshener that's probably called something like "Executive Breeze" or "Corporate Confidence.
" There's a receptionist behind a minimalist desk who looks like she irons her hair and has never experienced the chaos of mismatched throw pillows.
She's definitely judging my snowflake earrings. I can feel it.
"Reverie Bell," I say, trying to sound confident and not like someone who spent the last twenty-four hours spiraling about pack dynamics and life-changing decisions. "I have a meeting with Charlotte Webb."
The receptionist's perfectly manicured fingers click across her keyboard.
"Third floor, conference room B. The elevator is just around the corner."
She doesn't smile.
Just goes back to her screen like I'm already dismissed.
Okay then. Love the energy. Very welcoming. Ten out of ten would recommend.
The elevator ride up feels like it takes approximately seventeen years.
The mirrored walls reflect back at me from every angle—me, myself, and I, all looking progressively more anxious.
I fidget with my dress, smoothing down nonexistent wrinkles.
My palms are sweaty. My heart is doing that thing where it feels like it's trying to escape my ribcage through sheer force of will.
This is fine. It’s just a meeting. A casual conversation about a twenty-five-thousand-dollar opportunity that could change your entire life. No pressure. Totally normal Thursday activity.
The elevator dings. Third floor.
Conference room B is exactly what you'd expect—sleek wooden table, ergonomic chairs that probably cost more than my rent, a window overlooking the tiny downtown area. And Charlotte Webb, standing by the window, turning with a warm smile when I enter.
She's in her early forties, I'd guess, with dark hair pulled into a professional bun and wearing a burgundy suit that screams I have my life together and also a 401k. But her smile is genuine, reaching her eyes, and she immediately puts out her hand.
"Reverie! It's so wonderful to meet you in person. Please, have a seat."
I shake her hand—trying not to think about my sweaty palms—and sink into one of those expensive chairs. It's comfortable. Like, suspiciously comfortable. The kind of comfortable that makes you wonder if you could just live here.
Charlotte slides a thick folder across the table. "I've printed out the contract for you to review. I know digital is easier for some things, but I find there's something about seeing it on paper that makes everything feel more real."
Oh, it feels real alright. It feels very, very real. Too real. So real I might pass out.
I open the folder with trembling fingers. The contract is thick—easily thirty pages of legal jargon and specific clauses. But as I start reading, my eyes going wide with each paragraph, I realize this isn't just real.
This is legit.
Like, actually, genuinely, holy-crap-this-is-happening legit.
There's the advance payment clause—$25,000 paid upon signing, with additional performance bonuses based on engagement metrics.
There's the scope of work—daily content throughout December, specific requirements for the types of activities to showcase (local businesses, holiday events, pack traditions).
There's the creative freedom clause—I maintain editorial control over my content as long as it aligns with brand values and campaign goals.
There's even a clause about proper crediting and compensation if any of my content goes viral beyond the campaign scope.
They're not trying to screw me over. This is actually fair. More than fair. This is the kind of contract people dream about.
"This is..." I look up at Charlotte, not even trying to hide my amazement. "This is incredible. I was expecting, I don't know, something with more catches or restrictions or—"
Charlotte laughs warmly. "We've learned the hard way that authentic content comes from giving creators the freedom to be themselves.
Heavy-handed contracts that micromanage every detail?
They produce stiff, artificial content that nobody wants to engage with.
We'd rather work with people we trust and let them do what they do best."
They trust me. They want to work with me. This is really happening.
My hands are shaking slightly as I continue reading. Every page makes it more real. Every clause makes it more terrifying and more exciting in equal measure.
"What's the deadline?" I ask, looking up from the contract. "To finalize everything, I mean. When would you need a decision?"
Charlotte leans back in her chair, her expression thoughtful.
"Well, we'd love to get things rolling sooner rather than later.
Ideally, we'd have everything signed and ready to go by mid to late November.
That gives us time to prep the campaign launch materials and get you set up with all the necessary tools and support. "
She pulls out her tablet, swiping through what looks like a detailed calendar.
"The actual Christmas content would become a daily thing starting December first, running straight through to Christmas Day.
Think of it like a vlogmas countdown—every day showcasing a different aspect of small-town holiday life, pack traditions, local businesses.
Some days might be simple—showing your morning routine or a cozy evening at home.
Other days might be bigger productions—attending town events, participating in holiday activities, that sort of thing. "
Daily content. For twenty-five days. That's... actually perfect. That's exactly the kind of thing I already do, just with more structure and actual compensation.
I nod slowly, my mind already spinning with ideas. "So it's essentially a Christmas countdown series, but focused on authentic small-town experiences and pack dynamics?"
"Exactly!" Charlotte's face lights up. "You get it. That's exactly what we're going for. The magic of small-town holidays, the warmth of pack bonds, the community connections that make this season special. All through your authentic lens."
Pack bonds. Right. The thing I need to have. The tiny detail that's currently making my palms sweat and my heart race.
I take a breath, trying to keep my voice steady and professional. "I understand. And I'm definitely interested—more than interested, honestly. This is an incredible opportunity. But I'll need to go over everything with my pack before I can give you a final answer."
My pack. The pack I don't have. The pack I'm going to have to somehow manifest out of thin air in the next two weeks. No big deal. Totally doable. I'm Reverie Bell, manifestation queen, remember?
Charlotte's smile widens, and there's something knowing in her eyes. "I completely understand. Alphas are possessive as ever, as we all know, so getting their approval is essential. Take your time, review everything together, and make sure everyone's comfortable with the commitment."
She thinks I actually have a pack. She thinks I'm going home to discuss this with Alphas who care about my wellbeing and my career. She has no idea I'm going home to my attic apartment to stress-eat cookie dough and try to figure out how to find a pack in record time.
Charlotte reaches into her blazer pocket and pulls out a sleek business card—cream-colored with rose gold lettering.
She slides it across the table to me. "This has my direct number and email.
Message me anytime when you know for sure you can sign off.
Day or night, doesn't matter. We want to make this as easy as possible for you. "
I take the card, running my thumb over the embossed lettering. It feels expensive. Important. Real.
"I appreciate that," I say, tucking the card carefully into my purse. "Really. This means everything to me."
Charlotte's expression softens, but then she adds, almost casually, "I should mention—we are still looking at other candidates.
You're our top choice, absolutely, and we're very excited about the possibility of working with you specifically.
But we can't hold the spot indefinitely.
We need to have someone locked in by the end of November at the latest to make the campaign timeline work. "
The words land like a weight in my chest.
Other candidates. This isn't guaranteed. I could lose this opportunity. Someone else could get my dream campaign if I don't move fast enough.
I force my smile to stay bright, professional, unbothered. "I understand completely. Business is business, and you need to protect your timeline. I'll be swift in getting back to you. Very swift."