Chapter 2
TWO
A fort of old keyboards
Georgie
The toilet seat is freezing through my dress, but I can’t move. My legs are numb from curling up, knees hugged to my chest, but walking out there and facing humans feels impossible.
My phone buzzes.
Roy:
Georgie, love, where’ve you gone? It’s fine, honestly.
No, Roy. It’s so far from fine that fine is a distant dot on the horizon.
Another buzz.
Riri:
From boardroom presentations to BBC News at Ten!
I tuck my knees tighter and press my forehead against them. Maybe if I make myself small enough, I’ll dissolve into the plumbing and disappear into London’s sewage system forever.
“By Monday, they’ll be talking about something else,” I whisper to my kneecaps.
Absolute bollocks, and I know it.
Craig will be furious. He’s probably drafting my termination paperwork right now while I sit here curled up like a coward.
Of all the people to witness my spectacular failure: Patrick Mc-fucking-Laren. The man who thinks I’m too incompetent to operate a stapler.
Honestly, I might as well have climbed onto the conference table, dropped my knickers, and flashed him the unkempt bush I’ve been too busy and stressed to trim. It would’ve been equally mortifying and significantly quicker.
That sodding solar panel joke will haunt me until my dying breath. I’ll be ninety-three, peacefully sipping tea in a care home, and then BAM—the memory will ambush me from nowhere. I’ll probably hurl my tea at the wall and traumatize the poor care workers.
I yank my phone back out and text the only person guaranteed to distract me: my big brother.
Me:
What are you up to?
Jake normally sends his daily check-in by now. Like my lucky charm. Yes, I don’t believe in luck, but apparently today proves I should, considering I haven’t received my Jake message yet.
Almost instantly, he replies with a photo: grinning like an idiot halfway up a glacier, rope and crampons the only things between him and an icy death.
Jake:
Call you tonight x
Jake Fitzgerald. Fearless Antarctic explorer. The man who voluntarily sleeps on ice shelves.
Then there’s me: his dorky little sister, incapable of presenting her own project without accidentally broadcasting a voice memo about nervous burps.
Sometimes I wonder if I was adopted or if all the courage genes got hoovered up by Jake, leaving me with the genetic dregs: crippling anxiety, industrial-strength self-doubt, and a flair for humiliating myself in increasingly creative ways.
Eventually, I peel myself off the toilet and wobble to standing.
I unlock the stall and step out.
The mirror is merciless. A wild-eyed raccoon stares back at me—tear tracks, frizzed hair, pupils at full-moon setting. For a second, I don’t even recognize her.
My hair was nice this morning. Soft, dark waves Riri swore made me look “professionally shaggable.” Now it hangs limp around my shoulders.
I splash ice-cold water on my face, immediately soaking the neckline of my expensive dress—the one that was supposed to transform me into some sort of confident, corporate goddess.
I step out of the bathroom and head toward my department, eyes down. I just need to make it back to my desk, crawl underneath, build a fort from old keyboards, and remain there until I qualify for my pension.
That brilliant plan derails fast.
“Hey, you okay?” Ingrid, the UX lead who witnessed the presentation meltdown, walks past, blinking at me like I’m a freak show.
“Mm-hm. Just… upset tummy.”
Her expression says she’s not buying it.
I can’t return to my desk yet. Can’t endure the sympathetic smiles that translate to Christ, what was that absolute shitshow we just witnessed?
I pivot and bolt for the stairwell. The moment the door clicks shut behind me, I collapse against the cold wall and let myself breathe.
For a second, it’s blissfully quiet. No haunted voice notes of myself.
Then a door creaks somewhere above me. Male voices drift down the stairwell.
“… genuinely sorry about that unfortunate mishap, sir.”
Craig’s voice. Smarmy and apologetic.
I flatten against the wall, heart pounding.
“I don’t have time for this,” Patrick’s voice cuts through. “Just keep your bloody department under control. That was absolutely shocking.”
The word lands like a gut punch. My knees nearly buckle.
“Totally agree,” Craig says. “Massive misjudgment on my part. Was just trying to give one of the junior staff a chance, you know? Bit of encouragement, hand them the mic.”
“Encouragement’s all well and good,” Patrick snaps. “But don’t stick someone in front of a room if they’re clearly not prepared. Doesn’t matter who’s watching.”
Not prepared?
I built IRIS. Without my code, IRIS would be nothing but Craig’s meaningless buzzwords and a PowerPoint full of stock photos.
“I’ll put her on a performance improvement plan immediately,” Craig says. “We can’t have that sort of floundering.”
My breath stops cold.
A performance plan? For what, having shaky hands? I’m a software engineer, not a fucking TED Talk speaker.
Patrick exhales, the sound dripping with impatience. “Is this a pattern? Is she always this unprepared?”
This is where Craig should defend me. Where he says, “Actually, Georgie pulled sixteen-hour days for months. She missed her aunt’s birthday to fix a critical bug.”
“Oh, well,” Craig begins, and I can practically hear the double-decker bus revving its engine before it flattens me completely, “she’s got potential, sure. But needs a lot of hand-holding. Honestly, looked like she spent more time on her outfit than on the slides—”
“Careful,” Patrick cuts him off, his voice knife-edged. “I don’t give a damn what she wore. That’s irrelevant. What I care about is that she rambled incoherently, and wasted an entire room’s time. Whatever the underlying issue, it’s your job to address it.”
My teeth sink into my lip until it stings. It’s amazing how a handful of words can inflict such devastating damage.
“Understood, sir. At least Roy was able to jump in. I’ll work on getting Georgina up to the same standard.”
Sweet Roy, who messages me whenever he’s stuck on problems.
Patrick’s voice lowers. “Just give her whatever training or support she needs. I told you when you came in, I expect you to bring some backbone to this department.”
“Absolutely, sir,” Craig oozes.
There’s a pause, then Patrick’s voice cuts through again: “And Craig—don’t ever refer to one of our female employees as having ‘women’s problems’ again. For Christ’s sake.”
“Oh, right. Of course. I was just trying to be… considerate.”
I nearly blow my cover by snorting.
The door above clunks shut, and footsteps fade away into nothing, leaving me stuck to the wall, stuck in my humiliation and certain I can never walk back into that office again.
Some people don’t like it when you’re smart. Not too smart, anyway. They want you neatly contained in your designated box, where you smile prettily, nod enthusiastically, and feel grateful for whatever crumbs of “respect” they decide to toss your way.
I didn’t realize how good I had it until Ravi retired and Craig slithered in.
That first year at McLaren Hotels was rough. Emotionally, I was still a wreck after everything that happened at uni. But Ravi carefully coaxed me out of my shell, making me feel like my contributions mattered.
By the time he left, I was… okay. Confident-ish. Settled.
Now, eighteen months after joining McLaren Hotels, it’s like I’ve been rewound to the worst version of myself. The shaky, apologizing-for-existing me is back with a vengeance.
When Craig swooped in with a “whirlwind” of big ideas, most of them outdated by about five years, I naively thought I was being helpful by politely flagging obvious problems.
Ravi had actively encouraged that kind of input.
Craig… did not. And he definitely didn’t like me doing it.
So I stopped. Stopped offering ideas. Stopped… being visible, really. I just kept my head down, my mouth shut, and did the work.
It’s shocking how quickly one mediocre man can derail your entire life.
Six months ago, I walked into this building without my stomach clenched into a fist of anxiety. I was happy here. Quietly happy, the kind you don’t notice until it’s gone. Doing work that mattered with people who made me feel like I mattered.
That was Before Craig.
Funny, isn’t it? Every self-help book preaches the same sermon: Take your power back. Don’t let anyone else decide your worth.
And here I am. Letting it happen. Again.
My phone dings with a new work email.
Subject: Lunch
Georgie,
Join me tomorrow for lunch.
Patrick McLaren
I might genuinely vomit right here in this stairwell. Lunch with Patrick? Tomorrow? I absolutely cannot. I physically cannot. I have a critical IRIS update due—the one Patrick himself requested, funneled through Craig.
My fingers tremble as I type:
Sir,
I really appreciate the invitation, but I need to focus on critical IRIS work tomorrow.
Hope you understand.
Thanks again.
Georgie
His reply lands a minute later.
My office. 5 p.m. today.
Patrick McLaren
Oh God.
He’s furious.
All I was trying to do was prioritize, make sure the update didn’t go off the rails. Do my job.
Now I’ve just made everything worse.