Chapter 1 - The Woman I Cant Stand #2
The entire room seemed to adjust around her presence. Conversations stopped, people straightened in their seats, and one of the senior executives immediately moved a chair closer to the table.
Ling sat at the far end.
"Continue," she said.
Orm swallowed.
Then she continued.
Ling said nothing for several minutes.
She simply listened.
That somehow made Orm more nervous than if she had interrupted.
When the presentation ended, Orm clicked the remote and allowed the final slide to remain on the screen.
"That's the concept."
The client representative nodded thoughtfully.
"I like the emotional direction."
Orm smiled.
"Thank you."
Another executive leaned forward.
"The question is whether it's distinctive enough."
Orm nodded.
"That's something we've considered. That's why the campaign won't rely solely on the visual identity. The social activation will encourage consumers to submit their own—"
"Why?"
Orm stopped.
The question had come from Ling.
She looked across the table.
"Why should consumers participate?"
Orm blinked.
"Because they'll feel personally connected to the campaign."
"That's an assumption."
Orm felt her shoulders tense.
"It's based on audience research."
"Research tells you what people say they'll do," Ling replied calmly. "It doesn't always tell you what they'll actually do."
Orm tightened her grip on the remote.
"We've tested the concept."
"With twenty-four participants."
"Thirty."
Ling glanced down at the proposal in front of her.
"Thirty."
"Yes."
"Out of how many?"
Orm hesitated.
"Three hundred surveyed."
"So ten percent."
The room became quiet.
Orm could feel everyone's attention shifting between them.
She hated this.
She hated the way Ling asked questions without ever sounding aggressive, because it meant Orm couldn't simply accuse her of being rude and move on. Ling wasn't rude.
She was precise.
Somehow, that was worse.
Orm took a breath.
"You're right."
Ling looked up.
"But?"
Orm straightened.
"There is a reason we selected this direction."
"Then tell me."
Orm set the remote down.
"The campaign isn't asking people to participate because the brand is important. It's asking them to participate because their lives are important."
A few people around the table looked up.
Orm continued.
"We aren't selling a perfect lifestyle. We're asking people to recognize themselves in something ordinary. If someone submits a photograph of the breakfast their partner made them, or the shoes their father bought them before they left home, or a message from someone they haven't seen in years,
then the campaign stops being about the product."
She looked directly at Ling.
"It becomes about memory."
For the first time during the meeting, Ling's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But Orm noticed.
There was something in her eyes that hadn't been there before.
Interest.
Not approval.
Not yet.
But interest.
Then Ling asked, "And what happens when the audience doesn't care?"
Orm's confidence faltered.
"What?"
"If they don't want to share those memories publicly?"
"They don't have to."
"Then your activation loses momentum."
"Not necessarily."
"Why?"
"Because we're not measuring success only through participation."
Ling leaned back slightly.
"Then what are you measuring?"
"Emotional response."
"How?"
Orm paused.
She knew the answer.
At least, she thought she did.
But Ling had a way of making every answer feel as though it needed another answer behind it.
"We'll measure sentiment."
"Which can be manipulated."
"Not if the content is authentic."
"Authenticity can also be manufactured."
Orm stared at her.
The frustration she'd been trying to suppress all morning finally rose to the surface.
"Are you saying the entire concept is bad?"
Ling raised an eyebrow.
"I didn't say that."
"You've questioned almost every part of it."
"That's my job."
"And my job is to create."
"I know."
"Then why does it feel like you're trying to tear it apart?"
Silence filled the conference room.
Bow looked down at her notes, clearly deciding that whatever happened next, she wanted absolutely no part in it.
Ling, however, remained completely composed.
She looked at Orm for several seconds before speaking.
"Because if it can't survive questions in this room, it won't survive the market."
Orm opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
Ling continued, her voice quieter now.
"You don't need me to agree with you."
Orm looked at her.
"You need me to make sure you haven't convinced yourself of something simply because you love the idea."
The words landed harder than Orm expected.
Because they were true.
And because Ling had somehow seen through the part of Orm that she had spent years trying to hide—the stubborn part that became emotionally attached to her own ideas and sometimes defended them simply because admitting they were flawed felt like admitting she wasn't good enough.
Ling turned toward the client.
"I think the concept has potential."
Orm's head lifted.
"But it needs a stronger emotional hook and a clearer reason for participation."
Ling looked directly at Orm.
"Fix those two things and bring it back to me tomorrow."
Orm stared.
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"That's less than twenty-four hours."
"Correct."
Orm couldn't tell whether Ling was serious.
Apparently, she was.
"Is that a problem?"
There it was.
The challenge.
Orm straightened in her chair.
"No."
Ling nodded once.
"Good."
She closed her tablet and stood.
"Then I'll see you tomorrow."
She walked out of the room.
The door closed behind her.
Nobody spoke.
For several seconds, the silence was almost painful.
Then Bow slowly turned toward Orm.
"You do realize she likes you, right?"
Orm nearly choked.
"What?"
Bow laughed.
"Not likes you."
"Obviously."
"I mean she thinks you're good."
Orm stared at the closed door.
"That woman doesn't think anyone is good."
Bow smiled.
"Exactly."
Orm folded her arms.
"She just spent twenty minutes trying to destroy my presentation."
"No," Bow said. "She spent twenty minutes trying to make it better."
"You're supposed to be on my side."
"I am."
"You're not acting like it."
Bow leaned back in her chair.
"If Ling hated you, she wouldn't waste her time."
"What would she do?"
"Send a polite email."
Orm stared at her.
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"Yes."
"It doesn't."
"It will."
Bow gathered her notes and stood.
"Eventually."
Orm watched her leave.
Then she looked toward the closed door.
For some reason, a tiny part of her wondered whether Bow was right.
She immediately dismissed the thought.
There was no way.
Lingling Kwong didn't like her.
Lingling Kwong barely tolerated her.
And Orm was perfectly happy to keep it that way.
At least, that was what she told herself.
?
By lunchtime, Orm had convinced herself she was over the meeting.
By two in the afternoon, she had decided she hated Ling.
By three, she had changed her mind and decided that hate was too strong a word.
She simply found Ling incredibly irritating.
By four, she was back to hate.
By five, she had stopped trying to label it.
She was sitting alone in the office kitchen when the handkerchief slipped from her bag and landed on the table.
Orm stared at it.
The tiny embroidered L seemed to mock her.
She picked it up and folded it carefully.
"Why am I thinking about this?"
"You shouldn't be."
Orm jumped.
Bow stood in the doorway with a bottle of water in her hand.
Orm immediately shoved the handkerchief back into her bag.
"It's nothing."
Bow glanced toward the bag.
"Sure."
"It's just a handkerchief."
"From Ling."
"Yes."
"Which she gave you."
"Because my coffee spilled."
"Of course."
Orm narrowed her eyes.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
Bow laughed as she walked into the kitchen.
"Relax. I'm just saying she's not exactly known for handing out personal belongings."
"It's not personal."
"Whatever helps you sleep."
Orm rolled her eyes.
"She also gave me a deadline designed to destroy my weekend."
Bow sat across from her.
"Welcome to Veyra."
Orm dropped her forehead onto the table.
"I think she hates me."
Bow smiled.
"If Ling hated you, she wouldn't waste her time."
"What would she do?"
"Send a polite email."
Orm lifted her head.
"What does that mean?"
"It means she doesn't waste time on people she doesn't think are worth developing."
Orm stared at her.
"That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"Yes."
"It doesn't."
"It will."
Bow stood and picked up her water.
"Eventually."
Orm watched her leave.
Then she looked down at her bag.
She could feel the handkerchief inside.
For reasons she didn't understand, she didn't want to give it back.
?
By seven-thirty, most of the office had emptied.
Orm remained at her desk.
Her laptop screen was covered with revised campaign notes, discarded ideas, half-written sentences, and highlighted sections she had already rewritten three times.
Her coffee had gone cold beside her, her hair had been tied into a messy ponytail, and her shoes were sitting beneath the desk because she had finally decided her feet had suffered enough for one day.
The office was strangely peaceful at night.
During the day, Veyra felt like a machine that never stopped moving. Phones rang, printers hummed, people hurried through corridors carrying laptops and folders, and conversations overlapped until it became impossible to hear your own thoughts.
At night, the building transformed.
The lights were softer.
The corridors were empty.
The enormous windows reflected the city outside.
Orm leaned back in her chair and looked toward Bangkok.
From this height, the city looked almost gentle.
Thousands of lights stretched into the distance, cars moved like tiny streams beneath the buildings, and somewhere far below, people were living entire lives that she would never know anything about.