Chapter 20

Amelia

Three days later, I'm still somehow fumbling with last-minute slides, the ones Rose and Adam insisted on adding at two a.m., according to their email. When I look up, I notice Rose's reflection in the monitor. "Amelia," Adam's voice slices through my concentration, "tell Rose about her eye, will you?" He's not asking.

My hands freeze above the keyboard; that smudge of mascara under Rose's eye looks like a harbinger of doom. She's already a tempest of silk blouse and a skirt a size too small, just a single misstep from unleashing chaos. I swallow hard. The presentation to Mercy Hospital feels like it's teetering on the brink of disaster, and it hasn't even started.

"Um, Rose?" My voice is as brittle as the tension in the room as I turn. "There's a bit of mascara…" I motion to my eye.

"What?!" Her head snaps up so fast, her curls seem to crackle. She pulls a compact mirror from her purse, her eyes widening at the sight. "Unbelievable! How long has this been here?"

"Only just noticed," I lie, my heart hammering. She scowls but sets to work, scrubbing viciously beneath her eye with a tissue.

"Fixed," she snaps, shoving the compact back into her bag. "Let's go."

We ignore the dark shadow remaining under her eye as we spill out into the rain, a procession of hastily opened umbrellas and damp footsteps. Water seeps into my shoes, cold and unwelcome, like the nerves pooling in my stomach. Next to me, Rose marches ahead, a beacon of fury, while Adam lags behind.

I can't shake the sense of impending failure, an itch between my shoulder blades I've felt since we made the final edits, and Dr. Charles Johns looms over my thoughts. Having him recognize me would be a personal blow amidst professional ruin. Please, let him overlook me today.

"Remember," Rose says, casting a look back at us, "strict one-hour time frame, and Amelia, they want copies of the presentation. Did you bring them?"

"Of course," I reply, though my voice is nearly lost to the drumming rain. I clutch the USB drive in my pocket like a talisman and gesture to the paper copies in my bag.

The hospital soon looms before us, and we proceed to the marketing department on the fourth floor. This is where our fate will be decided. Rose walks over and gives our name and appointment time, and the woman nods.

Rose checks her watch, lips pressed into a thin line. "When we get in there, set up quickly," she orders, but there is no bite to it now, only urgency. "We have to impress."

Adam gives me a weak smile, and I return it, trying to muster bravery from the depths of my anxiety. "Let's do this," I say, more to myself than to them.

Rose paces, her heels clicking like the ticking hands of a clock. "Is anyone going to show us to the conference room?" she demands after a few minutes, her voice sharp.

"Ma'am, they'll be with you shortly," the receptionist replies, her calm an infuriating contrast to Rose's mounting hysteria.

We watch the clock click past the time we're supposed to start. I squeeze my eyes shut. The presentation is a living thing inside me, squirming, eager to escape or implode. And here we are, stuck in limbo, the clock mocking us with its steady march toward ten minutes after the hour.

"Rose," I whisper, trying to infuse some steel into my tone, "they know we're here. Let's just—"

"Amelia," she cuts in, eyes blazing, "if we miss our slot because we couldn't set up on time, it's on you."

I flinch, her words anchoring me to the spot. She's set me up for failure before anything even happens. Adam tries to catch my gaze, perhaps to offer silent support, but I'm drowning in the futility of all of this. Suddenly, I wish desperately I could just leave.

"Ms. Einstein? They're ready for you."

We all pivot toward the voice, and a woman stands there, professional yet impatient. Rose strides over, her expression thunderous. "You're late," she hisses.

The woman shrugs off the venom effortlessly. "Follow me, please."

As we wind our way through the hallways, I can feel scrutiny from every direction, as if the hospital staff is aware of the tension that clings to us like our damp clothes. The conference room appears ahead, a fishbowl where eight expectant faces turn toward us as we enter.

"Good morning," Rose begins, her smile a brittle fa?ade. "Thank you for having us."

"Of course, Ms. Einstein," Dr. Charles Kent replies, his voice smooth as he stands at the head of the table. "I think you know everyone here, but we'll just do quick introductions."

Asia Campbell, the head of nursing, nods beside him, her eyes assessing and sharp. Brittany Stevens, head of hospital administration, offers a polite smile. Crystal Brown, the head of marketing, has a calculating gaze, a strategist amidst healers. And then there's Holly Chadwick, the hospital's new advertising manager and the woman who showed us upstairs. Shit. Of course that's who she is. After Rose bit her head off, I know we're further in the hole.

"This is Adam Bishop," Rose says, gesturing to Adam who steps forward, hand extended in greeting.

"Welcome, Mr. Bishop."

"Brandon Wu. I'm with purchasing and contracts," a man adds, his handshake firm.

"Please, have a seat," Holly says, rounding the table. Her voice is gentle, but I hear the underlying command.

As we take our places, my heart thuds in my chest. We're here, at the precipice, and all I can think is how one wrong step could send us plummeting.

Rose makes polite conversation as I try desperately to get the presentation from my computer screen to the projector.

My fingers tremble as they attempt to align technology with expectation. Rose stands, her voice carrying through the room as she hands out the paper copies of our presentation and throws daggers at me with her eyes. I'm invisible in this moment, a ghost haunting the periphery, struggling with cords and compatibility.

"Perhaps we should begin without the projector?" Holly suggests, her voice soothing. But this does nothing to ease the sting of Rose's glare. The hospital projector remains obstinately disconnected from my MacBook, an impassable chasm between Apple and PC. "It can happen sometimes with non-PCs," she adds, her eyes sympathetic.

"Let's just start," Rose snaps, and I shrink back, abandoning the futile effort as Adam clears his throat, stepping into the limelight with a wobble in his confidence.

They stumble through the opening lines, a well-rehearsed duet now discordant and off-key. I sink into my chair, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and the weight of silent accusations. Rose doesn't even stop to let me present my part. As they wrap up the presentation with promises of undivided attention, I feel the hollowness in their words, a void where assurance should reside.

"Why is the hospital your largest account?" Holly's question slices through the air, her head tilted, eyes narrowed.

"We, uh…" Adam falters, sweat beading on his forehead. "We are committed to providing dedicated service, ensuring we're always available."

"Putting all your eggs in one basket isn't sound business practice," Holly murmurs, more to herself than to us, yet loud enough for everyone to hear.

A chill runs down my spine as Adam's face drains of color, his usual eloquence crumbling like dry earth. I steal a glance at Dr. Johns, but he's not looking at me. His gaze seems fixed on anything but my direction. Maybe that's better. At least, I don't have to decipher whether he recognizes me.

The air grows thick with tension, each tick of the clock amplifying our failures, punctuating the silence that follows our floundering attempts to impress. The taste of defeat is bitter, clinging to the back of my throat. And beneath it all, a gnawing fear whispers, what comes next?

The clock's hand lands on eleven with a click that resonates like a gavel. "Time is up," Holly announces, standing.

Rose's mouth opens and closes, a fish gasping for words. "But we haven't addressed your questions," she sputters.

"An hour is what we have available. It was clearly stated," Holly replies with unwavering resolve, her tone brooking no argument.

Never mind that we weren't shown back until 10:15.

We gather our things, my laptop heavier than it has any right to be. Rose is a statue, her face mapped in stone as we exit. Each step away from the conference room feels like walking through quicksand. My cell vibrates in my pocket, but I don't dare look at it now. Back outside, the hospital looms over us, a monolith of what could have been.

"Amelia," Rose hisses, her voice low but sharp enough to cut. "Today's catastrophe is all your fault. You're fired."

Adam's eyes meet mine, filling with something I might call regret if I didn't know better. Then he turns away.

"Wait, I…" My voice trails off as they walk away, leaving me stranded on the sidewalk, alone.

Maybe this is for the best, my heart tells me sometime later. I've stood here in front of the hospital for I'm not sure how long now, and a remote part of me realizes I should be angry. This most certainly is not my fault, but I'm numb, thoughts scattered. The office doesn't hold anything of mine, and there's no reason to return and say goodbye. So where do I go? Home isn't an option; its empty and too small to think. And Kent? I can't add to my embarrassment with him.

The bus arrives, and I climb aboard. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm getting out of the rain. As we move, the city blurs past my window. I pull the cord when Stella's office comes into view, a beacon in my fog.

Swift Staffing is bustling, a hive of the hopeful and the desperate. I stand at the back of the line, invisible until I reach the front. "Can I see Stella?" I ask the receptionist, my voice barely a whisper.

"Fill this out, please." She slides an application toward me without looking up.

I take the form, my hands shaking as I fill in the blanks. Done, I hand it back, and she waves me toward Stella's door.

"Stella?" My entrance is timid.

She looks up, and our eyes lock. In a heartbeat, she's around her desk and pulling me into an embrace while the world crumbles around me. Tears I didn't know were coming cascade down my cheeks.

"Amelia, what happened?" Her voice is soft.

"They…they fired me," I choke out between sobs, reality crashing down with each word.

"Shh, it's okay," Stella soothes, her arms a fortress around me. "You're not alone."

In her hold, I allow myself to break, to feel the pain of being treated unfairly, worked to the brink, and unappreciated. The office falls away as Stella's words wrap around me, soothing the raw wounds to my pride. "You'll have plenty of work, Amelia," she murmurs, her hands firm on my shoulders. "We always need skilled temps, and eventually, you'll land in the right place."

"Temp work?" My voice trembles. I'm not quite able to picture myself outside the glossy world of advertising. But I suppose I might never craft campaigns or brainstorm taglines again.

"Absolutely." Stella pulls back just enough to see my face, her eyes earnest and warm. "This isn't the end. It's just a detour."

I nod, clinging to her optimism. She guides me to a small cubicle, where a computer awaits like a silent judge. Typing tests, software quizzes, math problems—they parade before me, each click and answer chipping away at the monolith of uncertainty in my chest.

The screen blinks with my progress, a testament that even when the ground gives way beneath me, I can still stand. I lean into the familiar clack of keys, the soft buzz of fluorescent lights overhead—mundane anchors in the storm. At some point Stella brings me lunch, and then because I don't have anywhere else to be, I continue. I take tests and create samples for work that's way beyond my area of expertise. What do I have to lose?

"Okay, I think you're done for today." Stella's voice finally cuts through the hum of my focus. She stands by my side, a smile brightening her features. "You did great. Let's get drinks with Isla and unwind, okay?"

"Okay," I agree. We gather our things in silence, the weight of the day pressing down as we step into the cooling embrace of the evening.

The city is a blur of motion, life moving forward, indifferent to my personal earthquake. We walk side by side, the rhythm of our steps a counterpoint to the chaos inside me.

"Got something for you tomorrow," Stella says casually, but I sense the careful consideration behind her words. "A job at an accounting firm. They need an admin assistant. Just until you find your footing."

"An accounting firm?" My eyebrows knit together as I try to reconcile this new path with the one I've been ripped from. Numbers, ledgers, balance sheets—I can do it, but will I lose myself in the process?

"Hey, you've got skills they need." Stella bumps her shoulder against mine, a gentle nudge toward confidence. "It's just for now, Amelia. Not forever."

I nod, the gesture automatic, but doubt coils in my stomach. I'm stepping into a world where creativity gathers dust on the highest shelf, out of reach. But Stella believes in me, and for tonight, that has to be enough.

We enter The Diamond and find Isla already waiting, her smile a beacon in the dim light. "Amelia!" Her hug is another piece of the puzzle, fitting back a part of me I thought had scattered on the winds of change.

We order drinks, and I go for a straight vodka with a twist. I'm afraid if I start with drinks that are easy to swallow, I'll be trashed in no time.

"What happened?" Isla implores.

I give them all the details. Poor Stella just hit the ground running with me earlier today.

"But it wasn't your fault their projector wouldn't communicate with your presentation," Stella assures me with a pat on the arm. "And it wasn't your fault their presentation had nothing new to offer either."

"I know, but they had to blame someone." I sigh as the server arrives with our drinks.

"To new beginnings," Stella toasts, lifting her glass. Her words are meant to cheer, but they snag on the barbs of my fears.

"New beginnings," I echo. I take a sip, the harsh liquid a temporary distraction from the rough road ahead.

Stella and Isla spend the next little while reminding me all the reasons I was considering leaving my job at Creative Seed anyway, and they're both deeply committed to me finding a place that respects and appreciates what I have to offer. Once they feel they've made their points, they shift gears and find lighter topics to keep me entertained. As laughter and stories blend, I let myself drift on their currents, keeping the tides of worry at bay. For now, I'll follow the steps laid out before me—one temp job, one proficiency test, one drink at a time.