Chapter 7 #2
He approaches the edge of the stage, no longer flicking through the slides. “Charlotte can talk to medical professionals,
anonymously asking the questions she’s too scared to ask anyone else. Unlike searching Wild West forums like Reddit and Quora,
information on Wyst is asked for by the community, but provided by leaders in their fields. Janice can talk to LGBTQ+ mentors
about how to foster a positive communication style with her child. Florence can get immediate access to mental health specialists
and be set up with the help she needs. This is what we are providing through Wyst. Peace of mind that there will always be
someone to talk to.”
These users are made up to protect the anonymity of the users, but also to sell something like this to a room full of men, who for some reason need to think of women as their mothers, sisters, and daughters to actually give a shit about them.
Even with these stories, I can tell the audience is less interested than when the presentation started.
Despite the reduced attention span of the audience, Spencer is killing this. He’s doing better than I ever could. He belongs
on the stage, regardless of whether it’s Shakespeare or business jargon.
Just as he reaches his conclusion statement, the five-minute pitch timer goes off.
“And that’s your time. Thank you, Wyst!” the presenter says off to the side. “We’ll now move on to the Q and A with our panel
of judges.”
The audience claps as the panel sits on plush red chairs in a semicircle on the stage.
Spencer talks quietly behind gritted teeth, barely moving his lips. “I think I started to lose them at the end.”
Not wanting to derail his confidence, I lie. “No, you had them eating out of your hand. You smashed it. Final hurdle now,
you’ve got this. Just repeat after me.” We rehearsed a few standard questions I thought might be asked, but quickly came to
the realization we needed me to do the thinking and Spencer the talking to avoid any inconsistencies in his answers.
A short American man wearing an untailored suit goes straight in with the questioning. “What’s the difference between Wyst
and the current market of therapy apps?”
I say the answer down the phone line as Spencer repeats it word for word.
“This is not a one-to-one therapy app or a platform to talk to a well-trained chat bot. Think of this as a directory. A community-built, professional-managed social platform. We intend to hire more and more vetted professionals to expand our unified reach; we aim to become a premier entry point for all FemTech B2C businesses.”
The man nods, semi-interested in the response.
“Thanks, Spencer,” the host says. “Dominic, would you like to ask a question?”
Dominic crosses his legs. “How do you plan to expand your content? How big is that delta?”
Spencer’s eyes flash wide; he has no idea what that means. I barely know what that means, but luckily, thanks to my time at
Graystone, I’m partially fluent in bullshit.
“We plan to scale up and expand our pages to cover a range of topics affecting women, while launching in as many territories
as possible,” I say down the phone.
“We plan to scale up and expand our pages, while simultaneously launching in different countries and languages.” Spencer pauses
for a second, assessing the crowd. His shoulders relax as he adds, “We also intend to launch a full-scale multimedia platform.”
My entire body freezes as the crowd murmurs approvingly. Some finally looking up from their phones. My fingers scramble through
my folder. “Spence? That is not on the fucking cue cards.” The folder slips out of my sweaty hands and clatters on the floor.
My thighs tense when I bend down, my knees pressing against the cold vinyl flooring as I gather the loose white papers scattered
like petals.
I watch from the ground as he steps closer to the edge of the stage toward to the crowd. “We will have video content and podcasts
hosted by a wide range of celebrities and professionals.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” I say in a strained voice, tapping my finger against the headphone.
“Can you not hear me?” My vision locks on the screen above the stage, Spencer’s beaming smile and dilating pupils projected for all to see.
He isn’t panicking; if he can’t hear me, why isn’t he panicking?
Maybe he’s been disconnected and is winging it.
Another judge asks, “What’s the go-to-market motion here? How do you find people with this specific pain point and how do
you convert them into users?”
I pull a headphone out of my ear, bring it close to my mouth, and say slowly, “Through content marketing, affiliate programs,
high-end influencer marketing, highly selective brand collaborations.”
Spencer’s words match mine, but he paraphrases slightly. My brow furrows; so he isn’t winging it—he’s just going off piste
because he feels like it.
The only woman on the panel of six clears her throat. “Obviously, if you don’t mind me saying, you are a man. What jurisdiction
do you have in the FemTech space?”
Spencer sighs and puts his hands in a prayer position against his lips, before bringing them down to gesture to the panelist.
“I am passionate about women. I believe that all women and girls should be educated and autonomous with their own bodies.
By creating this company, we are putting the power in their hands. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter who I am—what matters is
our users and community.”
I roll my eyes as raucous applause flies from the audience, and I watch on the big screen as Spencer’s irises turn liquid
black.
He shoots a wide grin at the crowd. “In fact, I’ve been an advocate of feminism for years, before it became the mainstream thing endorsed by celebrities. And with my idea, we can bring feminism into the future.”
Oh my god, what does that even mean? I scan the crowd; it’s a sea of men, and they are eating this up. If it were women in
the audience, they’d see right through this embarrassing display of pseudo-support. But these men haven’t had a lifetime of
figuring out if a man is an actual feminist or whether they are just saying things to get what they want. And what man in
the crowd, in the face of all his colleagues and industry leaders, would denounce supporting women?
The applause continues. Spencer clasps his hands together and lowers his head toward the ground. Spencer fucking bows. My hands shake with frustration as I pick up the remaining few pieces of paper off the floor.
A cocktail of emotion roils in my chest; I’m glad this is going well, but he’s making promises I can’t keep. He’s making a
mockery of my plan. My heartbeat races, bouncing around my rib cage like a knocked-over basket of tennis balls. This is my
fault. Why did I do this? Why did I let him go out there? Why did I risk everything for this? If this doesn’t work, it will
all be for nothing. The bad thing will all be for nothing.
If a woman got up and said they support women’s rights, nobody in this room would give a shit. Because it’s a man, all of
a sudden “giving women the same respect and access as men” makes him look like the Second Coming. My head pounds and spins
at the same time, like a snow globe full of needles.
An energetic murmur settles among the crowd as Spencer returns to his seat on the stage.
My hands shake as my phone begins to vibrate aggressively.
Social media notifications catapult across the screen.
Over one hundred mentions from accounts and publications covering the event.
Shit, is the competition live streamed? Spencer went off script and it was recorded in 4K.
My throat goes tight, an invisible hand cutting off my air supply until I see dark spots.
I know we’re lying, but now he’s straight up LYING.
I shrink into the edges of the side stage until I’m shrouded in darkness, the constant flashing light from my phone screen
making me even dizzier. My back presses against the cold concrete wall, and I slide down until I hit the floor; my heavy head
hangs in between my legs as I try to breathe slowly.
Punctuating the ringing in my ears, I hear footsteps approaching me.
“Are you okay, miss?” An Italian man places his hand on my back, making me jolt upright.
“What?” I ask, my voice slow and cracking.
“Are you all right?”
Wiping the tears lingering on my lash line, I squeak out, “Yeah, I’m fine.” My head whips around, looking for the fire exit.
My hands move over the walls, searching for some sort of door, until I find a crease and push the door open.
Once I’m outside at the back of the concrete parking lot, my breathing sharpens, trying desperately to get air beyond the
barrier in my throat into my lungs. After a few minutes crouched in the corner, my body and brain start to calm down.
The panic and urgency curdle into outrage.
I’ve spent the past few days worrying so much about whether Spencer will be okay.
I never thought to worry about if he would deliberately fuck everything up.
Why would he go rogue like that? He has no reason other than humiliating me and sabotaging the company to make himself the star.
When we were children, he used to push me out of the way so he could have all the attention, and he’s still doing it.
Except this time, he put my company, my entire life on the line.
My loafers slap against the patterned carpet as I stride back through the hotel. I would go back to my room, but I need to
pace. In fact, I need to get out of here. Before I can think twice, I’m out the door, walking down the darkened street. The
sounds of cars and people chatting and laughing settle on my chest as my warm anger breathes out of me, immediately neutralizing
against the chilled evening air. It’s 6 p.m. and the sun has just set, but as Italians don’t eat early, most restaurants are
still empty. The quiet is a welcome reprieve from the competition.
My feet stomp down the road for a few minutes until I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I slide my cold hand into my
coat pocket and feel a crinkle against my phone. Pulling out the note from Oliver, I open Google Maps and look up the bar
written in scratchy handwriting. It’s an eight-minute walk away.
You know what? Fuck Spencer and fuck this. Cecily was right; I deserve a break.