Chapter 1 #2
Some people glance up politely. Others are scrolling their phones, clearly here for the pastries. Bandwidth guy is staring at my tits.
Honestly, the ones ignoring me are my favorites.
Behind me, the title slide glows: IRIS—Integrated Resort Intelligence System—The Brain of the Hotel.
“Good morning,” I start, softer than I’d rehearsed, but steady. “Thanks for being here.”
Craig claims the front row, spreading his legs wide enough to take up two seats. He grabs his lanyard and stretches it taut, then releases it with a deliberate snap against his chest, eyes locked on mine.
The message is clear: Remember who’s in charge.
I clear my throat. “So, uh…”
I literally stared into my bathroom mirror this morning, chanting, “Do not start with so, uh.”
And here we fucking are.
I open my mouth to recover when the door swings open.
Every word I’d prepared, every ounce of courage I’d gathered, dissolves.
Patrick McLaren fills the doorway.
The entire room shifts like someone’s announced a fire drill. Dave from tech support drops his phone like it burned him. Craig’s entire body goes rigid.
And me?
I’ve transcended normal panic into something new. Something beyond sweaty palms and wobbly knees.
Please be in the wrong room. Please have wandered in by accident. Please leave.
But no. The most intimidating man in the company—quite possibly the entire British Isles—just leans against the doorframe.
“Please continue,” he says, and that Yorkshire accent makes it worse, with understated authority that suggests you’d better bloody well continue. “Don’t let me interrupt.”
What the fuck is he doing here? Don’t let him interrupt? He’s six-foot-something of intimidation in a bespoke suit. His mere presence is an interruption.
Craig springs up so fast his chair nearly topples backward. “Patrick! Did you need something? I can absolutely step out if—”
“It’s fine,” Patrick says dismissively. “Jenny mentioned an IRIS presentation. Thought I’d sit in since I’ve got ten minutes.”
My stomach plummets. I cannot—will not—speak in front of him. I can barely exist in the same building as him, let alone deliver a coherent presentation about the system I’ve been pouring my soul into.
“No!”
The word erupts from my mouth before my brain can wrestle it back down my throat.
To him. Patrick McLaren. The CEO.
Those blue eyes lock onto mine. One eyebrow rises slowly, and his mouth flattens into something decidedly unfriendly. “No?”
“I mean—” My words trip over each other. “These are just low-level details. Tedious tech stuff. Nothing that would interest someone at your—at your level—”
I shift my weight from heel to heel. Proper etiquette would be to usher him to the front row with a curtsy. Instead, I’ve basically told the CEO to fuck off.
But I can’t help it. I won’t survive this. Not with him watching.
“Patrick, please—” Craig stammers.
“I think,” Patrick cuts in. “I can handle the tedious technical details of the company I happen to own.” His eyes remain locked on mine. “But thanks for your concern.”
Oh my god. He’s furious.
He’s the man whose whims turn into fifty layers of fallout that eventually reach me as midnight Slack messages from Craig.
“Of course,” Craig says, but his smile is strained. “Honored to have you sit in.”
Neither of us wants him here. First thing Craig and I have ever agreed on.
“That alright with you, Georgie?” Patrick’s gaze finds me again.
Now the entire room is thinking, How the hell does the CEO know her name?
“Th-th-that’s… fantastic!” I squeak.
“Carry on then.” He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, not even bothering to sit like a normal person.
This isn’t fair.
He must know what he does to people.
What he does to me.
I wrench my eyes back to the screen, blinking so violently that the text blurs. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed a sock.
Still, somehow, words claw their way out. “Right. Good morning. I’m Georgie Fitzgerald, and today I’m excited to present IRIS—our revolutionary new system that will transform hotel operations.”
The voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to me, but at least syllables are forming.
I tap my phone, praying my shaking finger hits the right button. The screen mercifully shifts; thank fuck.
“So this is IRIS’s main dashboard. Everything’s integrated—heating, lighting, the lot.” I force a swallow that probably everyone can hear. “And since we’ve got machine learning algorithms running in the background, we can, um, predict what guests need before they even ask.”
I click again, but the slide jumps three ahead then jerks back four like it’s having a panic attack of its own.
We land on the title slide. “WELCOME” mocks me in massive letters.
“Sorry, just—just a sec…” I mutter, stabbing my phone.
Someone coughs. That tight, cringey cough that translates to, Christ, this is painful.
“Take your time.”
Patrick’s voice cuts through the suffocating silence from the back.
I refuse to look at him. Physically cannot. If I make eye contact with the apex predator blocking my only escape route, I’ll die. Even if this presentation doesn’t kill me, one look at those eyes might finish the job.
The correct slide appears. I breathe. Barely.
I turn back to the room, doing everything I can to pretend he isn’t here.
Words stumble out of me, stiff and robotic. Roy nods from the front row like I’m nailing it, and I cling to it like it’s the only steady thing in the room.
But I’m not steady.
There’s a tremor I can’t hide, running from my hands to my voice.
Because he’s here, and when Patrick McLaren occupies the same space as me, I forget everything. How to speak. How to think. How to exist like a normal human.
Only this time it’s worse. So much worse.
Because I can feel his attention like a physical weight pressing against my spine. Not his usual dismissive glance that he tosses my way in corridors. Real, concentrated focus.
Like an idiot, I glance toward the door.
His gaze travels over me, taking in the dress that clings in ways my usual work clothes never do. Like he’s trying to reconcile this version of me—the fact that I’m not just a floating IT support head with USB sticks for hands.
His brow furrows, mouth pressing into a line. The expression makes me feel like I’ve turned up in my mum’s heels and lipstick, trying to bluff my way into being a grown-up.
Oh God.
I snap my gaze to the back wall. Anywhere but those penetrating blue eyes. “A-and with the AI feedback loop, we can... we can—uh—optimize, um...”
What comes out is a horrible mix of technical knowledge and the corporate nonsense Craig insists we shovel into presentations. Words I practiced until Riri started snoring on the sofa beside me.
Just keep going. You know this. You built the damn thing. Say the words.
I peek at Roy, who’s nodding encouragingly like I’m delivering the presentation of the decade.
Something loosens in my ribcage. My shoulders migrate down from their defensive position around my earlobes. My voice stops wobbling like I’m narrating a hostage video, finally sounding like it belongs to someone who knows what she’s talking about.
I might genuinely survive this ordeal.
Except—
A second voice cuts through the room.
For one wild second, I think Craig’s bulldozing me with his usual droning monologue about “scalable solutions.”
But it’s not Craig’s voice.
It’s mine.
“Good morning, everyone! I’m Georgie Fitzgerald, and today I’m absolutely thrilled to discuss real-time energy reporting!”
I freeze, heart slamming into my ribs.
Why the fuck am I hearing my own voice when my mouth is firmly shut?
The horrible realization crashes over me: my sweaty, trembling thumb must have triggered the voice memo app on my phone.
Around the room, expressions shift from polite attention to bewildered confusion. Eyes widen. A ripple of uncertainty passes through the audience—Is this some sort of innovative presentation technique?
“One sec,” I squeak.
From the back of the room, Patrick makes a low, rumbling sound deep in his throat.
I’d rather set myself on fire than see his expression right now.
My hands tremble so violently I can barely grip the phone, let alone unlock the bloody thing. Wrong passcode. Twice. The screen mocks me with its cheerful “Try Again” message.
“Just a minor… uh… technical hiccup,” I announce brightly, while my own voice continues blaring from the speaker.
“Okay, so here’s a little icebreaker for everyone,” chirps recorded Georgie, disgustingly peppy and full of misguided confidence. “What did the solar panel say to the hotel?”
There’s a pause because apparently recorded Georgie believed in dramatic comedic timing, before she delivers the fatal blow: “I’m a big fan of your energy!”
Oh. Christ.
Anything but that horrific dad joke. It didn’t even make fucking sense when I tested it on Riri, and she thinks Mrs. Brown’s Boys is peak humor.
The silence that follows is louder than the joke itself. Not the merciful quiet of polite attention, but the collective agony of twenty people experiencing simultaneous secondhand embarrassment.
Craig barks out a laugh. “Ha! Classic tech issues, eh?”
He’s smiling, but it’s the smile of a man mentally picking out my coffin.
And Patrick?
Patrick doesn’t laugh. He just watches me with that furrow between his brows.
I fumble the phone again—finally unlock the bastard thing—just as the next gem detonates:
“Remember to smile when you speak,” chirps recorded Georgie, thrilled with her own coaching advice. “Project confidence! Energy!”
Please let that be the end. Please—
“And whatever you do, don’t get the nervous burps.”
The words hang in the air like an actual belch.
A strangled whimper escapes me.
I slam the stop button so savagely I nearly put my thumb through the screen.
The room falls into the kind of silence reserved for funerals. Twenty pairs of eyes ping-pong between me, the traitorous phone, and me again. Like they’re trying to reconcile this aggressively cheerful audio version with the sweaty, shell-shocked disaster standing before them.
Like they’re waiting to see if I’ll burp, just to complete the prophecy.
“I didn’t quite get that,” Siri chimes sweetly into the carnage. “Would you like me to search for anti-flatulence medication?”
“Excuse me,” I croak, my voice scraping over the enormous lump of shame in my throat.
I don’t look at Craig’s purple face.
And I definitely don’t look at Patrick, because if I catch even a flicker of whatever’s brewing in his eyes, I’ll never recover.
I bolt for the door as fast as my stupid heels will allow, my shoulder slamming into the CEO’s solid chest on the way out. For one horrifying second, his hand rises as if he might catch my arm—steadying me or stopping me, I can’t tell—before it drops back to his side.
Behind me, Craig’s voice booms. “Right then! Sorry about that, everyone. Probably just... women’s problems, you know how it is. Roy, mate, why don’t you take over?”
Women’s problems.
As if I fled because my ovaries suddenly malfunctioned.
I wobble-sprint down the corridor, vision blurring, chest locked up too tight to breathe.
The second I reach the bathroom, I shove open the door, stumble into the last stall, and collapse onto the toilet seat.
Then I break.
Ugly, body-shaking, snot-producing sobs that come from somewhere deep. The kind that makes you wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling this mortified.