7. ARIA
7
ARIA
T he evening light bathes my room in a soft, Instagram-worthy glow as I lounge on my bed, the comfort of my familiar surroundings a jarring contrast to the emotional rollercoaster I’m riding. Should I text Pedro? Should I not? The classic dilemma of the modern rebounder, except that I usually know exactly what to do.
Just as I’m about to take the plunge, my phone buzzes with his name, like the universe is playing wingman.
“Pedro,” I answer, my voice a perfect blend of playful and aloof. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
His laugh fills the line, warm and familiar. “Hey, Aria. Got a minute?”
“I might. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he teases, his voice carrying a hint of audacity that makes my Spidey senses tingle.
A surprise? From Pedro? This ought to be good. “Color me intrigued... and slightly terrified. What are you plotting, Zuckerberg?”
“Oof. You’ll see. Text me your address. I’ll be there in an hour,” he says, his tone a mix of excitement and mystery, like a kid with a secret.
“Fine,” I sigh dramatically. “But if this surprise involves a slide deck on the future of AI, I’m out.” I tap out my building address, conveniently leaving out my apartment number. A girl’s gotta maintain some illusion of privacy, even if Pedro could probably find it with one flick of his AI magic wand.
I spend the next hour agonizing over my outfit, going for a look that says effortlessly chic. The things we do for... whatever this is.
As I step out into the evening air, the city’s energy wraps around me like a bustling, glittering hug. I can’t help but feel a stir of excitement as I wait for Pedro, my mind racing with possibilities. What could he be up to? And more importantly, what’s his angle ?
Right on cue, Pedro pulls up in his sleek, black Range Rover, looking every bit the tech mogul without the entourage. I slide into the passenger seat, the air between us charged with the weight of our history and the uncertainty of our present.
“Alright, Zuckerberg. Spill. Where are you whisking me off to?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant even as my curiosity threatens to burst out of me like candy from an abused pi?ata.
“Call me Zuckerberg one more time and I’ll have to start calling you AOC.”
“Ooh, that’s low, Olivera. I’ll stop, but you’d better tell me where we’re going. Am I overdressed?”
“Patience,” he quips, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Good things come to those who wait.”
I bite my tongue at the memory of the years I waited for him to come to his senses, wondering what the heck went wrong. Sure, I ghosted him for months after we broke up, thinking he’d keep reaching out, hoping he’d just read my mind and realize I needed time. But that kind of approach never works. Instead, I watched him get closer and closer to Jessica. The thought that he might have cheated on me with her before our breakup never even crossed my mind until she implied so much.
Honestly, my patience levels deserve some kind of Nobel Prize. But instead, I opt for a more diplomatic approach. “So, catch me up. Any new conquests I should know about? Aside from the tech world, of course.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Does surviving the Zoom meeting gauntlet count?”
“Only if you’ve mastered the art of looking engaged while secretly online shopping,” I counter, a smirk tugging at my lips, though inside I’m cringing as I recall the last Zoom meeting Pedro and I had four years ago.
As we pull up to the iconic Soho House, a realization hits me. Of course. A night of schmoozing with the tech elite. Classic Pedro.
I can’t help but laugh, the sound tinged with a hint of sarcasm. “Soho House? And here I thought this surprise was for little old me.”
“Think of it as a chance to expand your network,” he says smoothly, like the consummate businessman he is.
I won’t complain. My network is totally lacking in the tech titan department.
Inside, the place is a hive of activity, buzzing with the kind of manic energy that only comes from mixing too much ambition with overpriced cocktails. Pedro moves through the crowd effortlessly, his charm dialed up to eleven. I can almost sense the wheels in his mind spinning as he scans the room, likely on the lookout for his next big opportunity.
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” he murmurs, his hand finding the small of my back as he guides me through the throng. Oh, this should be good.
We approach a group of suit-clad men, their laughter a little too forced, their smiles a little too wide. Ah, the tech bro in his natural habitat. Pedro introduces me with all the finesse of a seasoned car salesman, painting me as some sort of client relations prodigy. He’s laying it on a bit thick, but I appreciate the effort.
Then, my heart is in my throat when he introduces me to a producer I’ve been following on IMDB since Pedro and I were still together.
The man with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, extends a hand. “Aria, a pleasure. I’ve heard great things about your work.”
I’ll bet you have. God, why I can’t I remember his name?
“Thank you. I’ve been following your work since…” I say, turning to Pedro. “Gosh, when did we take that trip to Colorado for the film festival?”
Pedro smiles as he seems to recall the weekend I dragged him with me to Colorado for an obscure indie film festival. We spent hours after the festival, locked in our hotel room, IMDB-stalking all the amazing people we’d met. This producer wasn’t one of those lucky folks, but judging by Pedro’s grin, he clearly remembers how lucky we felt at the time.
As the conversation flows, I find myself slipping into the familiar rhythm of corporate small talk, my wit and charm on full display. Pedro interjects occasionally, his comments perfectly timed to showcase my strengths. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was my hype man tonight.
But as the night wears on, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this than meets the eye. Pedro’s motives, always a bit of a mystery, seem even more shrouded than usual.
Then again, maybe he’s just trying to be nice? Or maybe I'm delusional. Either option seems plausible, honestly.
Excusing myself to the restroom, I take a moment to regroup. I lean on the counter, the cool marble under my hands a welcome respite from the suffocating swirl of conversation and subtext. I pull my phone out of my clutch, firing off a quick text to my tribe.
SOS. Pedro’s up to something. He brought me to Soho House and he’s talking me up to a ton of influential folks. I feel seriously off my game.
Sara’s response is immediate and to the point.
Watch your back. Don’t get in over your head.
Easier said than done.
Mark, ever the pragmatist, chimes in with a different take.
Use it to your advantage, honey. If he wants to play the hero, let him. Just make sure you’re the one writing the script.
Damn, bitch. When did you get so wise?
I’ve been watching a lot of Golden Girls.
I take a deep breath, studying my reflection in the mirror. You’ve got this, Aria. Time to show Pedro that I’m not a pawn in anyone’s game. Or at least, that I’m a pawn with exceptionally good taste in shoes and a seriously uncanny ability to make questionable life choices.
Stepping back into the fray, I spy Pedro chatting up another group of tech elite, his back to me. Showtime. I approach him, my heels clicking out a confident rhythm against the polished floor.
“Quite the performance you put on back there,” I say, my voice smooth and alluring. He turns to face me, his expression unreadable.
“I was just trying to help,” he says, his tone a perfect mix of sincerity and pride.
“Well, you certainly know how to work a room. I’ll give you that.”
He smiles, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes, as if he can sense the skepticism in my tone. “I learned from the best.”
I'm about to fire back with a witty retort when my phone buzzes, the name 'Karen' flashing on the screen. Damn . Jessica. I quickly silence it, but not before Pedro catches a glimpse.
“Karen?” he asks, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.
“Just a needy client,” I say breezily, hoping he can’t hear the lie in my voice. “She’s just checking in because I canceled our meeting sort of last minute.”
Pedro nods, but I can’t tell if he’s buying it. “Canceled for me?”
I laugh nervously, feeling like a teenager caught sneaking out past curfew. “What can I say? It’s not every day I get an invite from the CEO of New York’s hottest tech startup. I mean, I'm flattered, but let’s not make a big deal out of it. I'm sure you have plenty of other options for company. ”
He cocks an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. Your client and your plans are none of my business.”
As the night winds down, I find myself more confused than ever. Pedro’s motives, always a tangled web, seem even more knotted than before. Is he trying to make amends? Or is this just another move in the never-ending chess game of our history?
Uncertainty gnaws at me. My track record with relationships isn’t exactly stellar, and the potential risks here feel dangerously high. But I can’t let Pedro call all the shots. It’s time to take control of this rebound narrative, even if I’m unsure of how to do it without tripping over my own insecurities.
If Pedro wants in, he’ll have to play by my rules. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself as I navigate this minefield of mixed signals and unresolved feelings. Here’s hoping I don’t blow it all up in the process.
As Pedro slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, I can’t help but feel a mix of anticipation and unease as this very unexpected evening winds down. The cool night air drifts in through the cracked window, carrying with it the electric energy of the city, but it does little to ease the tension that hangs between us like a heavy fog.
I sit beside him, my face half-hidden in the shadows, lost in thought as I try to decipher his intentions. Then, I remember that I’m not supposed to care. My job is to get in and get out in a way that leaves him craving the security of Jessica’s obsessive devotion.
Suddenly, the car’s speakers come to life with an incoming call from Pedro’s assistant. “Hey, Pedro. I need to lock down your flight deets for the venture summit. Are you going with the charter or first class?” Her voice is all business, straight to the point, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of envy at the easy rapport they seem to have.
Pedro glances over at me before responding, his words carefully chosen like he’s trying to navigate a minefield of potential misunderstandings. “Actually, can you hold off on booking that for now? And when you do, it’s gonna be two tickets instead of one.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, and I can practically hear the gears turning in his assistant’s head. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were bringing a plus-one. Is it your uncle or…?”
“Nah, not him,” Pedro replies, and I can feel his eyes on me, gauging my reaction like he’s trying to read my mind.
Good luck with that, buddy.
The call ends, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. I can feel Pedro’s eyes on me, searching for a reaction, but I keep my expression carefully neutral. I'm not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much he affects me .
He clears his throat, trying to ease the tension. “My uncle mentioned wanting to tag along to the summit, but you know how he can be sometimes. It’s probably best if I don’t bring him.” He hesitates for a moment before adding, “And just to be clear, I'm not planning on taking a woman or anything. The second ticket is for my friend Omar.”
I try to keep my voice light and casual. “I remember Omar. And, hey, it’s none of my business who you choose to bring.”
But even as I say the words, I can feel the sting of hurt as I sense Pedro walking on eggshells for me. It hints at the deeply unresolved issues left in the wake of our breakup while also serving as a painful reminder of the distance that’s grown between us, a chasm that feels as wide as the Grand Canyon.
“It’s not like I'm not used to being left behind by you,” I add before I can stop myself. My tone is light but laced with an underlying hurt that I can’t quite keep out of my voice. It’s the wound that never quite seemed to heal no matter how much time passed.
Pedro’s brows furrow, concern etched on his face. “Aria, I... I never meant to make you feel left behind. I know I made mistakes in the past, but I want you to know that I?—”
I quickly cut him off with a forced laugh, waving my hand dismissively. “Relax, Zuckerberg. I'm just busting your balls. No need to get all sentimental on me.”
Pedro opens his mouth as if to say something more, but he seems to think better of it, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “Right. Of course.”
Way to go, Aria. Way to dig up the past like it’s Al Capone’s vault.
The rest of the drive passes in heavy silence, the unspoken words hanging in the air between us like a thick fog. I can feel the weight of our history pressing down on my chest, stirring up memories of what we once had and what we've left behind, making it a little hard to breathe.
As we pull up to my building, the awkwardness of our goodbye is palpable. We exchange strained smiles, but there’s a distance there, a sense of unfinished business that lingers long after I've disappeared inside. It’s like we’re two puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit, no matter how hard we try.
I enter my apartment and lean against the cool door, my heart racing as I try to make sense of the evening’s events. Am I really ready to jump back into the ring with Pedro, knowing how badly I got knocked out in the last round?
Stepping into Jessica’s sleek, modern office feels like entering a lioness’s den. The air is thick with unspoken tension, each of her movements calculated and precise. She sits behind her desk, an embodiment of power and control, her eyes scrutinizing me with a mix of appraisal and ownership.
I begin to detail the week’s progress with Pedro, ensuring my voice remains steady and professional. Jessica listens, her expression unreadable, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the polished surface of her desk.
I choose my words carefully, aiming to keep the focus on the professional aspect. “At Soho House, Pedro was quite engaged. He introduced me to several key figures in the tech industry,” I say, trying to sound detached.
Jessica’s gaze sharpens, her lips curving into a subtle, almost imperceptible smile. “Really? Pedro’s not usually one for schmoozing. He must have been in a good mood,” she remarks, her voice dripping with passive-aggressive undertones.
Her comment catches me off guard, and I struggle to maintain my composure.
“It seemed like a strategic move on his part. He was... surprisingly open, more so than I’ve seen before,” I add, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters while kicking myself for the last line. “I mean, more than I imagine would be the case for a CEO. I’ve heard they’re—I mean, in my experience, they’ve pretty closed off.”
This melange of words seems to pique Jessica’s interest, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Open? That’s new for Pedro. He is usually pretty reserved,” she says, the words laced with a mixture of curiosity and something else, not sure if it’s jealousy or disdain.
I nod, realizing I may have inadvertently revealed more than I intended. I quickly wrap up my report, feeling Jessica’s eyes on me, analyzing every word and gesture. As the meeting concludes, I can’t shake the feeling that her possessiveness over Pedro might be a bigger obstacle than I anticipated.
There’s a pause as she leans forward, her gaze piercing. “Aria, I must say, your rapport with Pedro seems... intimate,” she remarks, a not-so-subtle accusation.
I stiffen at her words. “Jessica, I assure you, my approach is strictly professional,” I respond, my voice betraying none of the turmoil inside.
She scrutinizes me, her gaze unwavering. “I hope so, Aria. I really want to give you five-star feedback when this is over.” Her words are a clear reminder of her authority and the consequences at play.
After the meeting in Jessica’s office concludes, she promises to give me a glowing review in her one-week report to Gretchen. She dismisses me with a distracted wave, telling me to see myself out. As I make my way through her apartment, I pass the kitchen and spot a picture on her fridge. It’s a photo of Jessica and Pedro, looking cozy and happy together in front of a fireplace.
And…wait a minute, is he wearing the tie I gave him for our second anniversary? The one I used to blindfold hi m during our anniversary celebration that lasted all night?
“Seriously?” I mutter under my breath, “Who actually takes photos in front of their fireplace? I bet she made him wear matching flannel pajamas in the winter.”
A light cough interrupts my critique. I whirl around, mortified, to find Jessica standing in the doorway, a confused smile playing on her lips.
“Oh! I…uh…I was just admiring the photo,” I stammer, the words tumbling out of my mouth in a jumbled mess. “You look so...cozy. So... fireplace-y ?” I force a smile, willing my cheeks to stop burning.
“Uh…thank you,” Jessica replies, her expression still a mix of amusement and puzzlement. “And, yes, that was taken at my family’s cabin in Aspen. It’s one of my favorite memories.”
I nod enthusiastically, my cheeks aching from the force of my grin. “I can see why. It’s a beautiful picture. You two really do make a stunning couple.”
Jessica’s lips curve into a smug smile, her eyes glinting with a possessive gleam. “We do, don’t we? I can’t wait to recreate that moment once Pedro and I are back together.”
“Right, of course,” I squeak out. “Well, I should be heading out. Great meeting, so glad we’re on the same page, yada, yada, yada…”
Mumbling incoherently, and with a final wave, I practically bolt out of the apartment, my face burning with embarrassment. Way to keep it professional, Aria .
As I step out onto the bustling city street, I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the lingering discomfort from my close call with Jessica. I can’t afford to let my guard down like that again, not when there’s so much at stake. If I'm going to pull off this rebound and secure my partnership, I need to stay focused and keep my emotions in check.
As I feel the sticky sweat accumulating under my arms, I can’t ignore that this job is turning out to be a lot easier said than done.
Back in the comfort of my apartment, I decide to unwind with a bit of smug satisfaction by watching Jessica’s latest live stream. She’s whipping up some vegan concoction, her movements as practiced as a bad infomercial. As she opens the fridge, I notice the photo of her and Pedro is now front and center. Well, someone's not overcompensating at all...
Suppressing a chuckle, I shut down the stream and open Instagram. Settling back on my couch, I scroll mindlessly until a barrage of notifications floods in—Tío Juan is on a liking spree! He’s strategically targeting every single photo on my page that includes Gretchen. His digital flirting is as nuanced as a kick to the head.
I can’t help but laugh. Tío Juan and his...enthusiastic approach to online courtship. He even comments on a slightly embarrassing photo of Gretchen and me from office happy hour: Aria, you’re looking great, but who is that ravishing young lady by your side?
I shake my head, a smile lingering. The world of Instagram can wait. Tío Juan’s antics are a hilariously absurd reminder of the weirdness that is modern connection.
But just as I'm settling into the amusement, a text from Gretchen snaps me back to reality. Her tone is icy.
The initial feedback is leaning positive, but there are some notes about you possibly getting too close with the client. Don’t screw this up. And I mean that literally!
The partnership, my hard-earned goal, suddenly feels precariously out of reach. This job’s become a minefield, and I'm the one tiptoeing through it in clown shoes.
The message hits hard. The partnership, my saving grace in this screwed up business, is in jeopardy. Then, in a flash of brilliance, I realize the potential solution: the tech summit and Tío Juan. If I can somehow orchestrate a meeting between Gretchen and her new suitor, perhaps it'll improve her mood and provide a useful distraction for Tío Juan while I try to get closer to Pedro. After all, there can be no phase three, Repulsion, without a phase two, Adhesion.
A plan starts to form—a risky, outlandish one. But desperate times and all that. Tío Juan, with his larger-than-life personality and unexpected charm, might be the perfect match for Gretchen’s formidable prominence. It’s a long shot, but with the partnership slipping through my fingers, it’s time to take a gamble on love.
And if I can’t get love, I’ll settle for a well-timed distraction.
I’m sitting at my desk, taking a break from the usual grind by testing out Pedro’s new AI video tool. I figure I could use a laugh, so I’ve programmed it to generate a video of a Brazilian supermodel doing a bad impression of Miranda Priestly from The Devil Wears Prada . As I wait for it to render, I lean back, sipping my third coffee of the day, when the door to my office swings open.
Mallu strides in like she owns the place, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and a look on her face that tells me she’s here to either gloat or grill. “Aria, querida ,” she says, her accent adding a musical lilt to the words that almost makes them sound less ominous. Almost. “How’s the Farrow account going? I hear she’s quite the challenge.”
I force a smile. “Oh, you know, just channeling my inner peace. Jessica responds well to all things spiritual. How’s Benson treating you? Heard he’s been keeping you on your toes.”
Mallu’s lips curve into a smug smile, the kind that’s all sharp edges and hidden daggers. “Benson? he’s been a delight, really. A few strategic nudges, and he’s right where I want him. You know how it is—clients like him just need the right... motivation to stay on track.”
I open my mouth to respond, but that’s when the AI video decides to finish rendering. My computer chimes, and before I can react, the video starts playing—at full volume.
On the screen, a ridiculously gorgeous Brazilian supermodel struts into an office—not to unlike my own—her heels clicking loudly. She tosses her dark hair back dramatically, then looks directly at the camera—and into my eyes—with a withering glare. “Get me... Armanis,” she commands in a thick accent, waving her hand like she’s swatting away mosquitoes rather than dismissing assistants. The AI’s version of Miranda Priestly is so tragically off-target that it’s almost art, but the timing is a disaster.
I fumble for the volume controls, my fingers betraying me as the model barrels on with her mangled monologue. “You... hit your head on the floor? We are having a big deadline!”
Mallu’s eyes narrow, her expression a mix of bemusement and bewilderment as she takes in the chaos. My face feels like it’s on fire as I finally manage to mute the video, but not before AI Miranda caps it off with a sultry, “This is... all,” delivered with a lazy flick of the wrist.
There’s a beat of silence as Mallu looks from the screen back to me, one perfectly arched eyebrow lifting in question. “Interesting... research you’re conducting, Aria. Something you’d like to share with me?”
I clear my throat, quickly closing the video window. “Just testing out some new AI capabilities for a client,” I lie, hoping she doesn’t notice the way my voice cracks. “You know, seeing how it handles different accents.”
Mallu’s eyes glint with something that’s definitely not sympathy. “Well, don’t get too distracted. There’s a partnership on the line, remember?”
I try to smile through my embarrassment, but it’s a struggle. “Don’t worry, Mallu. I’m focused. Just making sure all the tools in my arsenal are in top shape.”
Mallu lets the silence hang a beat too long before she nods, satisfied. “Good to hear. I’ll leave you to your...tools, then. Benson is practically begging for Phase 3.” She turns on her heel, gliding out of my office with the grace of someone who’s never once tripped over her own feet.
I take a deep breath, slumping back in my chair once she’s gone. The paused AI video still haunts my screen, a reminder of just how quickly things can go sideways. Mallu’s visit was a not-so-gentle nudge that I can’t afford any missteps, not with everything on the line.
Suddenly, my phone vibrates with an incoming call. It’s Pedro. I hesitate for a moment before answering, unsure of what to expect.
“Hey, Aria,” he says, his voice carrying a mix of uncertainty and hopefulness. “I have this investor meeting, and I was thinking... you know, you could come with me.” There’s a brief silence before he continues. “I can have my assistant send over our standard consultancy agreement, so you’re paid for your time.”
I laugh at his attempt to formalize the invitation. “What, like a hooker?” I tease, quickly dismissing the comment before he can take it seriously. “I’m kidding. I’d love to go. No need for any legal agreements.”
“Sweet. I was thinking we could start with a brief overview of Aira Labs' mission and our current government contracts,” Pedro suggests, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and nervousness. “Then, we could dive into the specifics of what we’re looking for in terms of funding and partnerships.”
I smile, my mind already spinning with ideas, but it practically spins into outer space at the sound of him speaking the name of his company. The fact that Aira is Aria spelled backward is not lost on me. It certainly made the occasional sighting of the name in tech headlines over the years even more jarring and bittersweet. A small torment in a volatile digital landscape full of torture chambers. It’s one of the many reasons I deactivated all my social media accounts except for Instagram.
“That sounds great,” I say, hoping the genuine enthusiasm I’m feeling overshadows the confusion that the Aira Labs name always brings. “And maybe we could also touch on the potential applications of your tech beyond the current scope. Really paint a picture of the future you envision.”
Pedro’s eyes light up at the suggestion. “I like the way you think.”
The conversation is seamless, our minds in sync, and before long, we have a solid plan in place. I can’t afford to get sentimental, though—this is business.
With our sights set on the Soho House investor, Pedro’s reliance on me marks a shift in our dynamic. We’re officially in phase two.
“So, it’s a date then?” Pedro asks, a hint of eagerness in his voice.
“Absolutely,” I reply, feeling the weight of our decision settle over me.
We finalize plans to meet at Raoul’s, a French bistro in Soho, the choice of venue adding a touch of gravity to the meeting. This isn’t just any investor pitch; it’s a moment that could shape the future of Pedro’s venture—and my role in it.
“By the way,” I say, my voice turning playful as I glance at him. “Did you name Aira Labs after me? I mean, it's not every day I see a company with my name spelled backward.”
He freezes for a fraction of a second, his eyes briefly flickering with surprise. Then he lets out a soft exhalation and leans back. “Yeah, okay. You caught me. It is named after you.” He hesitates, the vulnerability in his eyes catching me off guard. “When we broke up, I wanted to work on something that would make a difference—not just for me, but for people like you. People who have stories to tell but lack resources.”
I blink, momentarily thrown by his confession. “So, your big idea was to name a tech company after me? Pedro, you know what people are saying about Aira Labs, right?” I let out a dry laugh. “That it's going to replace screenwriters and filmmakers. People like me.”
He meets my gaze head-on, his expression serious. “I know what they’re saying. But that’s not what Aira Labs is about.”
“Then what is it about?” I press, crossing my arms. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re developing technology that could put a lot of creative people out of work.”
Pedro sighs, his brow furrowing. “Aira Labs was never meant to replace screenwriters or filmmakers. It's meant to democratize the industry. To give a voice to people who don’t have the connections or the funds to break into Hollywood. It's a tool, not a replacement. It’s… It’s just supposed to make filmmaking more accessible.”
I chew on his words for a moment, the air between us thick with tension. “But you know how this works. Tools can be misused. What if it becomes something that the industry uses to cut costs at the expense of actual people—artists who’ve spent years honing their craft?”
He leans forward, his eyes locked onto mine. “That's why people like you need to be involved. You have a voice. You have the passion and the insight to steer this in the right direction. I want Aira Labs to be a platform that empowers artists, not silences them. And yeah, I know it’s a delicate balance. But I’m not doing this to destroy what you love. I’m doing it to help you and people like you.”
I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling over me. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the low hum of the city outside. I feel exposed, like he’s peeled back a layer I’ve tried so hard to keep hidden. I’ve spent years hearing whispers in the industry, the fear that technology like this would make us obsolete. And now, here he is, telling me I’ve got it all wrong.
“So, you want me to believe that this isn't just some...slick marketing line?” I challenge, though my voice softens. “Because it’s hard not to be skeptical when the tech world keeps promising to 'revolutionize' things, only to leave a trail of casualties in its wake.”
Pedro looks at me, his gaze unwavering. “I can't promise you that Aira Labs will fix everything. But I can promise you that we’re not the villain in this story. You, of all people, should know that the film industry needs change.”
“It does,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s terrifying to think that change might come at the cost of some much needed voices.”
His eyes soften, the guarded expression he usually wears fading. “Then be a part of it. Be the voice that makes sure this tech works for everyone, not just us tech bros. ”
A moment passes between us, something fragile and real. Maybe he's right. Maybe the only way to ensure this doesn't become the nightmare everyone fears is to confront it head-on, to have a say in how this technology shapes the future of storytelling.
“Fine,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “But I'm holding you to that. If Aira Labs starts looking more like Skynet, you can bet I'll be the first one to pull the plug.”
He grins. “Deal. But only if you give me a heads-up so I can say, ‘Hasta la vista, baby,’” he says, adopting a terrible Arnold Schwarzenegger accent.
I laugh at his terrible impression, but inside, for the first time in years, it feels like we're on the same page. Not just in business, but in something deeper. This isn’t just about an investor pitch anymore; it’s about what kind of future we want to create—together.
The anticipation is tangible as I add the finishing touches to my makeup, aiming for a blend of professional and chic. Honestly, this whole contouring trend feels like an engineering project. I probably spent more time on it than Pedro did on his pitch deck.
As I stand in front of the mirror, smoothing down my dress for the third time, I can feel the familiar tightness in my chest that comes with overthinking. Tonight’s dinner at Raoul’s isn’t just a business meeting—it’s a pivotal moment in my plan .
The connection phase worked, and we’re quickly transitioning into the adhesion phase. Pedro’s looking at me like I’m someone important in his life again. But I know what comes next. The repulsion phase, or as we joke at the office, the restraining order phase. The part where I push him away just when he’s starting to lean in.
I should be excited. This is all part of the strategy to win over Gretchen, to prove I can handle any client—no matter how complicated, no matter how personal. Securing this partnership at Full Circle is my goal, and yet… the idea of pulling back, of creating distance between Pedro and me, makes me feel queasy.
What if I’m wrong about him? What if our breakup four years ago wasn’t as black and white as I made it out to be?
I swipe on my nude lipstick, staring at my reflection, but all I can see is the leaderboard at the office. Mallu’s name is right below mine, waiting to pounce if I falter. I want to win this partnership more than anything. But for the first time, I wonder if I may lose something more important in the process.
The thought makes me pause, just as the chime of the doorbell cuts through the silence, signaling Pedro’s arrival. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror one last time before heading out of the bathroom to open the door.
I shimmy around the moving boxes, the sight of them ratcheting up my anxiety. Sara and I have been taking a short break from packing up her stuff for the past few days. Her moving boxes have become a permanent fixture in the living area. Each one is a harsh reminder that our days as roommates are numbered.
I yank the door open and Pedro stands there in a sharp, black blazer, a black T-shirt, and designer jeans and sneakers; looking every bit the part of a startup founder poised for success.
His subtle compliment, a simple, “Wow…” washes over me with a warmth that I try to brush off with a casual, “Thanks.”
From the kitchen, Sara’s presence is felt more than seen, her silence punctuated by a soft, amused snort that speaks volumes.
“Who’s that?” Pedro’s curiosity piques at the sound of Sara’s voice.
Pedro knows Sara, but it’s possible he doesn’t recognize her voice anymore after all these years.
“My roommate,” I dismiss with a wave of my hand, eager to steer the focus away from my apartment. Grabbing Pedro by the arm, I lead him out into the hallway, ready to embark on the evening ahead.
As we exit, Sara’s voice trails after us. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” she calls out, a playful reminder of what’s at stake.
“Well, that narrows it down significantly!” I shout over my shoulder as the front door closes behind me, grinning as I imagine her smirking at this inside joke.
Her bellowing laughter echoes through the walls and down the hallway as Pedro and I step into the elevator. The neighbors must hate us.
I step into the corner of the elevator as Pedro presses the button to take us down to the ground floor. As he steps back so we’re side-by-side, I get a whiff of his subtle cologne. The heat of his arm against my shoulder reminds me of all the times we’ve stood in elevators like this before.
He glances down at me with a devious grin on his face. “If you want to hold my hand, you can just ask.”
I roll my eyes as I take a tiny half-step away from him.
He laughs at my obvious attempt to put some distance between us. Then, time seems to slow to a crawl as he gently grabs my hand and laces his fingers through mine as the elevator doors slide open. “Come on, Elizabeth Holmes.”
I laugh out loud, feeling light as air as Pedro leads me out onto the bustling streets of Manhattan. The sounds of the city are an orchestra, each note a crescendo of anticipation. In this moment, everything feels brighter, bolder. The possibilities stretch before us like an endless, shimmering path.
Tonight is not just about impressing an investor. It’s about proving to ourselves what we’re capable of—together.