Chapter 9
Jade
Sara
Good morning! Ready to nail it today?
Emma
You’ve got this. We’ll be cheering you on.
Tessa
Luc and I are up (barely). See you soon! You’re going to be amazing.
I stare at the messages for a long moment, something warm and tight settling in my chest. They’re here. They came all the way to Vienna to watch me give a presentation they know I’m dreading. That has to count for something.
Jade
Thank you for being here. It means everything.
I reach over to the nightstand. Last night, I put the Polaroid of the four of us at Schonbrunn—Sara mid-laugh, Emma’s gray hair catching the light—on the nightstand.
I prop it against the lamp where I’ll see it when I get out of the shower.
Then I change my mind and put it in my jacket pocket instead.
Then I force myself out of bed and into the shower, trying not to think about the fact that in two hours, I’ll be standing in front of 350 people.
Trying not to think about Berlin. Trying not to think about Carlos standing in that elevator, admitting he’s spent months thinking I’m a petty lunch thief.
He took an earlier flight out of Berlin, meeting with some contact yesterday afternoon here, so I was spared having to sit on an airplane with a man I recently told to go fuck himself.
Did I lose my temper? Probably.
But I also am tired of men making me feel like I need to shrink myself or be someone else.
I swing my legs out of bed. In another version of this morning—the version where I’m just a person in Vienna with a few free hours—I’d already be outside.
Vienna is a city you have to earn on foot, and I’ve read about a market near the Naschmarkt that opens early.
I’d have been there by seven, eating something warm, camera out, making the kind of morning that becomes a Polaroid.
Instead I stand in the shower and run through my opening lines until my fingers are pruned.
I can do this.
I have to do this.
The venue is larger than Berlin—a massive hotel ballroom with rows and rows of chairs, a raised stage at the front, professional lighting that makes everything feel more serious, more real. I arrive at 7:15 a.m., giving myself plenty of time to set up.
Carlos is already there.
Of course he is.
He’s standing near the podium, reviewing something on his tablet. He glances up when I enter, and for a moment our eyes meet. I see him open his mouth, like he’s going to say something—maybe good morning, maybe we need to talk, maybe another comment about professionalism.
I turn away and walk to the opposite side of the stage, pulling out my laptop.
I will not speak to him unless absolutely necessary.
I hear him sigh from across the stage, but I don’t look up. Normally I’d have something to say about that sigh. Something about how if he keeps sighing at me I’ll start charging him by the exhale, or possibly something worse. I let it go. Today is not the day for it, and he is not the person.
I connect my laptop to the projector, pull up the presentation, and check that all the slides are in order. The familiar opening slide appears on the screen behind me—clean, professional, boring.
“Jade—” Carlos’s voice, closer now.
I don’t turn around. “Is there a technical issue?”
A pause. “No.”
“Then I think we’re set.” I keep my eyes on my laptop screen, adjusting the brightness even though it doesn’t need adjusting.
Another pause. Then I hear his footsteps retreat.
Good.
At 7:45, my phone buzzes.
Emma
We’re here! Where should we sit?
I glance out at the filling ballroom. The front rows are reserved for press and pharmaceutical executives. The middle section is filling with industry professionals. The back is reserved for patients and their families.
Jade
Middle section, left side. I’ll be looking for you.
Five minutes later, I see them file in. Sara first, scanning the room with her organized efficiency. Emma next, smiling when she spots me on stage. Tessa and Luc bringing up the rear—Luc looks exhausted, but he’s here.
They wave. I wave back, and something in my chest loosens.
My people. They’re here.
I walk down the stage steps to meet them in the aisle. Sara pulls me into a hug immediately. “You look so professional,” she says. “Very powerful.”
“Your suit is perfect,” Emma adds. “And I love what you did with your hair.”
I touch my ponytail self-consciously. I’d taken extra time this morning to make sure the white streak was visible, positioned just right. “Thanks.”
Tessa hugs me next, squeezing tight. “You’re going to do great.”
“I’m going to try not to freeze and run off stage,” I say, aiming for humor but landing somewhere closer to honesty.
“You won’t,” Sara says firmly. “You’re prepared. You know your material. And we’re right here.”
Luc offers a sleepy but genuine smile. He got stuck on a layover in Frankfurt yesterday due to a strike and didn’t get in until late last night. He offers me two thumbs-up. “No pressure.”
I laugh despite my nerves. “No pressure at all.”
A few more people file past us, and I realize I should get back on stage. “I should—”
“Go,” Emma says. “We’ll be right here the whole time.”
I squeeze her hand once more and head back up. As I climb the steps, I see Carlos watching from the side of the stage. His expression is unreadable.
At 8:00 a.m., I step up to the podium.
The ballroom is packed. Every seat filled. Press in the front with cameras and recorders. Pharmaceutical executives with their tablets and expensive suits. Patients in the back, some wearing headscarves, some with partners holding their hands.
My mouth goes dry.
Then I find Sara in the middle section. She’s sitting forward, hands folded on her lap, giving me her full attention. Emma is next to her, smiling encouragingly. Tessa and Luc are slightly behind them—Luc is clearly fighting sleep, but Tessa is alert and supportive.
My people.
I take a breath and begin.
“Good morning. Thank you all for attending today’s presentation on advances in hair loss prevention for oncology patients.”
Carlos begins translating immediately, his voice steady and professional beside me. I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes on the middle section, on my friends.
I click to the next slide. “Our clinical trials began in 2019 with a cohort of 247 participants across five European research centers.”
The presentation unfolds exactly as I’ve practiced. Every word memorized. Every transition smooth. Every data point delivered with precision.
It’s technical. It’s data-heavy. It’s methodical.
It’s boring.
I know it’s boring. I can see it in the way some of the pharmaceutical reps glance at their phones and in the way a few people in the back shift in their seats. Even Luc, bless him, is struggling to stay awake.
But I don’t freeze. I don’t panic. I don’t skip sections or lose my place or run off stage.
I look at Sara when I discuss methodology and at Emma when I explain results. Then I look at Tessa when I outline future research directions.
Not at Carlos. Never at Carlos.
He translates beside me, his German smooth and professional. Once, I think I feel his gaze on me, but I don’t turn. I keep my focus forward, on the slides, on my friends, on getting through this without falling apart.
Forty-five minutes later, I reach the final slide.
“In conclusion, our research demonstrates significant efficacy in preventing chemotherapy-induced hair loss for oncology patients, with a favorable safety profile and high patient satisfaction rates. Thank you for your attention.”
The applause is polite. Not enthusiastic, but not uncomfortable either. A few people are already standing, ready to head to the coffee bar at the back of the room.
I did it. I got through the entire presentation without freezing.
It’s not pride I feel. But it’s relief. That has to count for something.
Afterward, I mingle with the attendees near the display tables at the back. This part I’m actually good at. One-on-one conversations don’t terrify me the way stages do.
A woman in her fifties approaches. “Thank you for the presentation,” she says in accented English. “I was in one of the clinical trials. Of course, who’s to say if I would have lost my hair . . . but I didn’t.”
My throat tightens. “I’m so glad.”
“It’s the little things, you know?” She touches her hair. It’s auburn, shoulder length, a little thin but healthy.
“That’s why we do this work,” I say, and I mean it. This moment—this connection—this is what matters. Not the boring presentation or Carlos’s critique or any of it.
This.
We talk for a few more minutes before she has to leave. I watch her go, blinking back unexpected tears.
“Jade!” Sara’s voice. I turn to see all four of them approaching, Luc looking slightly more awake now that coffee is involved.
“You look fantastic,” Tessa says immediately. “Very powerful up there.”
“The attendance was fantastic,” Emma adds.
“I was very impressed with the numbers,” Luc offers.
They’re all looking at me with carefully constructed expressions of encouragement, and I realize immediately what they’re doing.
“Come on, y’all. Truth serum.”
There’s a beat of silence. My friends exchange glances.
“You did a great job presenting the information,” Tessa says carefully.
I huff. “Okay, fine,” Sara says, reaching out to take my hand. “You know we love you, but it’s very obvious that you’re nervous when you start, and you bury yourself in the numbers because that’s where you’re comfortable.”
“I’m presenting the information,” I say, but even I can hear how defensive that sounds.
“Honey,” Emma says in her gentlest voice. “You hate this, don’t you?”
The question hits me harder than it should. “I can’t hate it. It’s a great opportunity. I get to travel, and Rebecca says this would boost my career.” I swallow hard. “You all think my presentation sucks, too?”
“Hang on,” Tessa says sharply. “We didn’t say it sucks.”
“Did someone else tell you it sucks?” Emma asks, concern in her voice.
I roll my eyes so hard it’s practically load-bearing. “Carlos did.”
“He said it sucks?” Tessa raises an eyebrow.
“No, not exactly.” I bite my lip. “He said it was boring.” Which is worse. “It sucks” is an opinion. “It’s boring” is a diagnosis.
There’s another beat of silence. No one contradicts him.
“It’s just that we know you so well,” Sara says carefully, “and you have such an interesting story. Maybe you can make it more personal?”
“Yeah,” Emma adds. “People love hearing great, inspirational stories like yours. You would give them hope, you know?”
I look off into the distance, tugging at the end of my ponytail. The woman in the headscarf flashes through my mind. It gives me hope.
Maybe my friends are right. Maybe Carlos was right, even if I hate admitting it.
“Just think about it,” Tessa says. “If you need help, come to us. Now, should we go meet Carlos, or should we go out to lunch?”
I glance across the room. Carlos is talking to a pharmaceutical rep, looking professional and competent and like someone I have absolutely no desire to interact with right now.
“Lunch,” I say immediately. “Definitely lunch.”
We head toward the exit, and I don’t look back.