Chapter 3

Amelia

It's Sunday afternoon, but I'm at work—mid-sentence in an email about the new campaign Mercy Hospital has requested, in fact—when Rose's voice cuts through my focus in our open-plan office.

"Team meeting, now," she announces with an urgency that snatches my attention from the screen.

We're working on a Sunday because the nurses' union is making noise about the upcoming contract negotiations with the province, and the hospital wants to do a preemptive strike and run a campaign about how valuable nurses are. Maybe then they won't walk off their jobs.

Everyone gathers around the glass conference table, the clack of keyboards surrendering to a tense silence. Rose doesn't waste a breath. "I've just heard that Mercy Hospital could be putting their account up for review." Her eyes meet mine, and an icy dread grips my gut. "They've hired a new advertising manager, and she seems to be shopping around, seeing if anyone else can offer better strategy and support for less."

I swallow hard, the words sticking like thorns in my throat. It feels like a betrayal—all those late nights, the strategies developed hand-in-hand with them. Maybe all for nothing. My mind races as I try to piece together what this means for us, for me, if we lose this account.

Before the news has time to sink in, Adam Bishop bursts into the room. "This is it," he blurts, pacing like a caged animal. "Mercy is our lifeline. Without them…" His voice trails off, but we all understand the unspoken conclusion. Without Mercy, there's no Creative Seed Marketing.

"Adam, let's just—" Rose begins.

"Prepare for war," he declares, sweeping his gaze over us. "We're not just going to lie down and let them walk away!"

"What if it isn't true?" I squeak.

"Oh, it's true," Rose interjects. "My source is at Medi Advertising, and they got notice of the account review."

"But we haven't heard from the hospital," I reason. "If they were serious, wouldn't they tell us first?"

Rose puts her hands on her hips, probably tired of me questioning her. "We wouldn't have to do the RFP. We'd only be asked to present."

All hope that the information is false dissipates, and my hands shake, barely contained energy rushing through my veins. This isn't just about keeping a job. It's about fighting for the survival of the place that's been my second home. Not always a happy home, I admit. But it's what I know. This is what I do. Fear coils around my heart. What if we've already lost?

"I'll be leading the charge on this," Rose announces. "Just know that, right now, I don't care what else is happening in your life. We are living and breathing Mercy Hospital."

"Of course," I affirm, though inside I'm a tumult of questions and doubts. I can't let that show. Not now. Now, I have to be strong—for the team, for my career, and for the future of Creative Seed Marketing.

Damn it, we're going to keep Mercy, no matter what it takes.

I return to my desk and get back to work, losing myself for hours until the reflection of the setting sun against the glass fa?ades of the skyscrapers casts a golden hue over my desk. But the glow feels mocking, hollow. I stare at the spreadsheets and pitch decks that litter my workspace, each tab and slide a testament to recent failures. We didn't want to have all of our eggs in the Mercy Hospital basket, but we can't seem to catch a break when it comes to landing new clients.

Rose appears next to my desk. "Amelia, did you get those numbers from the last campaign?"

"Pulling them up now," I answer, clicking through folders. Yet my mind is elsewhere, on the bright future that seems to be dimming with each passing moment. I was so close to stepping up to account manager for Mercy Hospital, a promotion that now feels like a mirage in the desert of Creative Seed Marketing's prospects.

Adam paces behind Rose, running his fingers through his graying hair, a gesture I've come to associate with deep trouble. "We need to comb through every interaction. What are we missing? What aren't we seeing?"

"Everything's here, Adam," I assert, trying to sound more certain than I feel. "Our campaigns were solid, our engagement rates high. They tell us what they want, and we give it to them."

"Then why the hell don't they see that?" he growls.

I sift through email threads and client feedback, searching for clues. Clients only go out for bid in the middle of a contract if they're unhappy. Nothing sent to me tells me they're unhappy. Maybe this new manager is just getting the lay of the land?

"Remember the pitch on hospital wait times and what Mercy was doing about it?" I suddenly blurt, a sliver of hope piercing the gloom. "They said they loved our innovative approach. Why didn't they use it? They never ran the ad anywhere."

Rose leans in, scanning the data spread across my screen. "It doesn't add up. Our work is good—"

"Good isn't cutting it!" Adam interrupts, slamming a fist on the table. The team jumps, a collective flinch. "We need to be extraordinary!"

The hours drag on, a marathon of strategy and speculation. We dissect case studies, rework creative concepts, prepare defenses against every conceivable critique. I can feel the weight of Adam's expectations pressing down on me.

Eventually, I realize we've become reactive to the hospital's many requests. This week alone they asked to go in three different directions—nurses' importance for the upcoming nurse union negotiations, recruitment of specialists, and the importance of regular mammograms. Rose meets with them every Monday and returns with a giant to-do list. Maybe this new leadership will provide more structure for them or make them more willing to trust outside expertise. Otherwise, I don't know what more we could be doing.

"Pitch your part to me again, Amelia," Adam commands.

I clear my throat, standing with a deck of slides we used to win the account. It's now been revised more times than I can count, though a small voice inside me notes that it has not been scrapped for something new. And that might be a concept worth exploring.

As I walk Adam through the strategies for Mercy, what we promised when we won the account two years ago, my voice steadies, fueled by the urgency of the situation. Each word is a life raft I'm sending out to save us all from drowning.

"More passion, Amelia!" Adam punctuates my presentation with his relentless drive.

"Passion won't fill the gaps we have because they don't have a concrete plan on their side, Adam," I retort before I can stop myself. My stress is overriding my better judgment. "Maybe we need input from their new leadership."

He shakes his head, as if the idea has no merit whatsoever. "Fix it, Amelia." His words are an order, not a request.

"Doing my best here," I mutter as I tweak and adjust. We shouldn't be re-presenting the slides that won us the business. We need something new.

"Your best has to be better than their best," Adam says, his gaze razor-sharp as it meets mine.

Whose best does he mean? As evening turns to night and the city's lights come to life outside, I'm left wondering if there's a strategy clever enough, a pitch perfect enough, to keep us afloat in this storm. Doubt is a persistent shadow in the back of my mind, whispering that maybe our best will never be good enough.

Adam finally sighs. "It's late, and we're not producing anything of value. Go home and be here tomorrow morning before eight. Be ready with some good ideas."

I pack up my things and follow a small group out to the elevators. I hate leaving work at this hour. I'm hungry, and at home I think I have a box of saltine crackers and a stack of American cheese. Tonight, I should have something a little healthier, and perhaps also a little more comforting.

When the bus drops me at my stop, instead of going home, I head for the store. The fluorescent lights of the IGA grocery store cast a harsh glow on the linoleum tiles. I stand before the frozen dinner section for a moment too long, caught between hunger and exhaustion.

Mac and cheese or lasagna? I scan the nutritional labels. Both hover around the thousand-calorie mark. The lasagna looks hearty, tempting, but the macaroni and cheese promises that gooey comfort only yellow cheese can deliver. After the day I've had, dealing with Adam and Rose with their incessant demands, I deserve some indulgence. Mac and cheese it is. I grab the box and make my way to the checkout.

The line snakes along the aisle, more than ten people deep, all equally weary. I shuffle forward, cradling the frozen block in my arms, willing the line to move faster. That's when I catch a glimpse of the guy behind me—tall, dark hair, and a jawline that could cut glass. For a wild second, I picture him in a cape and tights, flying over Metropolis. He's got that Henry Cavill kind of handsome that makes you forget yourself for a moment.

"Wouldn't look half bad in a Superman suit," I whisper under my breath, smiling in spite of myself.

But he doesn't even glance up, his thumbs tapping furiously on the screen of his phone. My curiosity piques, and I lean ever so slightly to the side, catching a fleeting glimpse of his screen. A woman's breasts fill the display, and I recoil, embarrassment flushing my cheeks. Sexting. Right here in the IGA line.

Definitely not Superman, I scoff internally, the fantasy shattering into pieces. More like a player. "Could have done without the peep show," I mutter, shifting away from the man, still lost in his own lurid world. It's odd how quickly someone's allure can tarnish, their exterior charm stripped away by one glimpse of their private life. Too handsome for his own good, I conclude, trying to distance myself from the disappointment. Yet another letdown in a day already brimming with them.

Trying to shake off the distaste, I focus on the conveyor belt inching forward and set my dinner down with a dull thud. My stomach growls. I imagine sinking my fork into the creamy mac and cheese. Come on, I urge the cashier silently. But no matter how fast we move, it won't ease the tension coiled within me, the anxiety over the Mercy account that gnaws at my insides.

I tap my foot impatiently, and the line inches forward. A sudden craving for something sweet—something to salvage this day—strikes me like an arrow. I pivot to the candy rack, scanning for that familiar brown-and-gold wrapper. I need that gooey caramel, that comfort only a Cadbury Carmello can provide. But the box is frustratingly empty.

"Excuse me," I say, turning to the man behind me, the one now resembling a fallen superhero with his chiseled jaw and tarnished charm. "I'm just going to grab a candy bar. Be right back."

He doesn't look up from his phone, probably still engrossed in his digital dalliance. His silence stings, a reminder of my own invisibility. Leaving my frozen meal on the conveyor belt, I make a beeline to the next aisle.

It's quick—the grab and go. I clutch the Cadbury treasure in my hand, feeling its weight like a small victory. But as I slip back into my spot, there's an immediate uproar.

"Hey! You're cutting!" The accusation slices through the hum of the store, and I whirl around to face a scowling man a few people back, his indignation puffing him up like a peacock.

"No, I just—" I start, but he barrels over my words.

"Go to the back of the line!" the man demands, gesturing wildly to the now-monstrous queue snaking back down the aisle.

My cheeks flame with embarrassment and anger, my eyes flicking desperately to the handsome man behind me for some semblance of support. "This is my spot. I went to get—"

"Doesn't matter," Not-Superman cuts in, eyes never leaving his phone. "You left the line. You need to go to the back." His voice is flat, disinterested, and it feels like a slap.

I grip the candy bar tighter, the foil crinkling in my fist. With every pair of eyes on me, judgment heavy in the air, I'm suddenly an exhibit—a spectacle of frustration and injustice. "My meal is on the conveyor belt. I'm adding one small thing," I try again, pointing with a shaky hand at the frozen dinner.

"Doesn't change the fact that you left your spot, love." He has a British accent, which is normally a symphony to my ears—made me a sucker for Chad's nonsense—but now it sounds like grating noise.

The crowd seems to press forward, eager for drama. Store security ambles over, their presence magnifying my humiliation. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," one of them says, his voice devoid of sympathy.

"But…" My protest dies in my throat, the weight of their stares pushing the air from my lungs. I can't believe this is happening. I abandon my dinner, my cheeks burning as I scoot past the registers and back outside.

The man behind me couldn't be bothered to look up when I told him I was stepping out of the line for a half-second, but he had plenty of focus when it came time to hang me out to dry. I usually don't confront people. My father used to say, "Be like a duck and let the water roll off your back." It's some kind of French Canadian thing his mother taught him. But after the day I've had, sex-addicted not-Superman is going to get a piece of my mind.

So I wait, the chilly evening air doing little to cool my simmering anger. When he finally emerges, the handsome man whose indifference cost me my place in line, I step into his path. "Thanks for nothing," I spit, the bitterness in my tone clashing with the vulnerability I feel.

He pauses, gives me a look that's all surface—no hint of apology or understanding—then simply steps around me and continues on his way, unaffected by the tempest he's left in his wake.

"Asshole," I mutter, turning on my heel.

The walk home is lonely. And it's only when I reach the safety of my apartment building that I notice the Cadbury Carmello still clenched in my hand, a sweet promise turned sour.

"Damn it," I whisper, regret twisting in my gut. But there's no going back, not tonight. I fish out a two-dollar coin and hand it to the unhoused man sitting on the sidewalk across from my apartment—a small penance for an accidental theft.

"Rough day?" he asks, his eyes kind.

"Something like that," I reply with a nod.

In my empty kitchen, I set the candy bar on the counter, untouched. I stare at it, the hollow feeling inside me growing with each passing second. Tomorrow looms over me, a beacon that seems too far away. It has to be better than today. It just has to be.