Two

See the door and open it.

I stare at the polished surface of the conference room’s table. The swirling script that appeared on the tarot card the night before bounces through my brain. Next to me, my senior VP taps her rose-red nails against a branded coffee mug. The reminder of the rose, of the red room, of Eleanor, makes me shiver. I try to focus my attention on Jade as she recounts a story to our clients that sounds hilarious but that I can barely hear over the thundering of my nervous heartbeat.

For three years, I’ve been putting in unpaid overtime and pulling all-nighters, working my ass off to get a chance like this: My first client pitch. My first campaign. The moment I’ve been dreaming about since college.

See the door and open it.

“…and that’s when I realized”—Jade leans back in her Hans Wegner swivel chair, her brown curls bouncing against her shoulders—“renting camels for team building in Illinois was not my brightest idea!”

Laughter erupts, and on the ninety-eight-inch screen hanging on the wall above the conference table, LuminaLuxe’s CEO, Brad Major, cracks up along with his two senior marketing managers.

Just as it dies down, I join the laughter, way too loud and entirely too late, and avert my gaze from the raised eyebrows of LuminaLuxe’s CEO. The floor-to-ceiling windows lining one wall of our pristine conference room are streaked with snow, and even though it’s three o’clock in the afternoon, the Chicago sky is gray and dense. The waters of Lake Michigan reflect the monochrome above, a jarring contrast to the vibrant peacock of jewel tones splashed throughout Posh Pulse’s conference room. From the rich eggplant of the carpet to the mulberry-and-gold-patterned wallpaper, the entire office is painted in royal purple and shiny gold, like drowning us in regal colors will force us to be more successful.

I shuffle my notes, a smile plastered on my face. Across the table, Stephanie swings her long blond hair over her shoulder as she leans in to whisper to our supervisor, James. They exchange hushed words, and she throws her head back, laughing.

Fucking Stephanie.

Both of us have been at Posh Pulse for the past three years, and I’ve never seen her look anything less than perfect. She’s the royal pop of color while I’m nothing but washed-out gray. My waist-length muddy-brown hair hardly ever behaves, and I’m sure my thrift-store designer dress isn’t fooling anyone. How Stephanie affords Louboutins on an entry-level salary is beyond me. Most months I can barely make my rent.

My phone lights up and lets out a Chewbacca-roar Slack notification. My cheeks heat as I snatch it up and silence it before glancing at the message.

Stephanie: Your notes are so cute. I love what you added to the pitch about helping the poor.

Stephanie: Who knew the savior of the working class wore last decade’s Dior.

Stephanie: Btw, rolling out of bed and putting on just anything was daring.

Stephanie: No matter what anyone else says, you look great in pilling couture.

I glance up, and she cuts her green eyes to me, wrinkling her button nose with a smile as fake as her swollen lips.

Fucking Stephanie.

I’m not the savior of the working class and have never tried to be. I want to make a difference—a positive change—and LuminaLuxe will agree to do just that when I tell them what these donations will do for their image and their tax deductions.

“Well, we’re excited to hear what you have for us today!” Brad cheers with an enthusiastic clap that makes me jump. “Madelyn promised this was a cutting-edge idea.”

“That’s what we do here.” With a wink, Madelyn, the president of Posh Pulse, removes her chunky Tom Ford glasses from her silver hair and slides them onto the bridge of her nose.

I swallow, suddenly feeling as open and on display as one of those fetal pigs I petitioned so hard not to dissect in high school.

Madelyn nods to Jade, who glances at me, sending a rush of ice through my veins. Jade chose my idea for the LuminaLuxe campaign and gave me this chance to pitch it directly to the client—an honor usually reserved for VPs. But with Vanessa leaving for London, one of the fancy corner offices will soon be empty, which means Posh Pulse has a senior-level position available for the first time in years. A position with my name on it.

See the door and open it.

I stand and clear my throat, and the room’s attention swings my way. I straighten, smoothing out invisible creases in my dress, the remote faces on the screen watching expectantly.

“Our campaign,” I begin, “is a revolutionary take… Wait, no. Sorry. I’m Hannah. Hello.”

A chorus of uncomfortable chuckles pops through the speakers. “Continue, Hannah,” Brad says, adjusting his red power tie and nodding at the camera.

I glance down at my handwritten notes, my face burning. Shit. Six words in, and I’m already screwing up. “As I was saying, our campaign is a revolutionary take on skin care. It’s edgy, daring, and, well, frankly, unprecedented.”

The CEO narrows his eyes and tilts his head. His office’s overhead lights gleam against his gelled hair, shiny as an oil slick. Was that a flicker of hesitation? Is he already questioning the idea before I’ve started?

My heart leaps. I can’t lose him. Not when I’m so close to getting to the juiciest part of my pitch.

“You’re worried we’ve gone too far,” I offer, the words charging up my throat. “Look, this idea is definitely unconventional, but it’s still accessible…for most age groups. I think for the teens and the twenty-to-forty cohort, there will be great engagement, but older customers might not mesh so well with the messaging we’ve put together. But then, that’s what being cutting-edge is all about, right?” I give a nervous chuckle and meet Jade’s startled gaze.

Brad lifts an eyebrow, and sweat dampens my palms. “That’s not to say the boomers—” I blurt, motioning to Madelyn. “Sorry, the elderly cohort won’t like it. I think there will be a certain number of negative online responses, but nothing trending or messy that we can’t handle.” My throat clenches, and I let out a barking cough as I push back my unruly hair. “And if you’re worried about—”

“What Hannah is trying to say,” a smooth, calm voice cuts in, “is that we’re envisioning a campaign that’s as bold and daring as our clientele, with the added benefit of leaning into the social consciousness of Gen Z consumers. By integrating a corporate responsibility initiative, we’ll ensure shoppers feel great about where their skincare dollars are going. This approach not only strengthens the LuminaLuxe brand, but it also aligns with the values of the campaign’s target demographic.”

I stare across the table, frozen, as Stephanie grins up at the screen, her teeth all white and straight and perfect.

“This campaign doesn’t just whisper—it roars.” Stephanie stands, tugging on the waist of her double-zero-sized dress before grabbing her copy of the pitch book off the table. “Brad, if I can get you and your team to look at page seven, you’ll see exactly what I mean.”

I sink into my chair, my mouth noiselessly opening and closing as Stephanie stalks back and forth, giving my presentation, deadly as a shark.

Jade stares at me, questions pressed into the deep furrow between her green eyes. But I have no answers.

I look down at the table. My vision blurs, and I blink to keep the tears at bay.

I have nothing.

* * *

“What the hell was that about?” Jade shout-whispers as soon as we’ve filed out of the conference room and into the hallway. Through the tears still threatening to absolutely ruin my makeup, she looks like an angel. My watery vision smears her white silk shirt dress into the gold walls, all of it seeming to add an ethereal glow to her dark skin.

I hiccup back my tears and white knuckle my pitch book, the original copy, in one hand. I glance over at Stephanie and James both grabbing their jackets to head out for a celebratory drink. LuminaLuxe loved the campaign. My campaign. Of course they did. But that fancy office and senior-level position won’t be mine—not after Stephanie flawlessly delivered the pitch while I sat there, clutching my water glass, drowning in shame.

“I don’t know.” I shrug, swiping my free hand through my tangled hair. “I just…I thought I scared him off by saying it was edgy, and I knew he’d have some concerns, so I was trying to make it clear that any he did have had already been thought through and worked out.”

Jade sighs and presses her burgundy lips into a thin line, her disappointment palpable. “Babe, were you selling them the dream or the disclaimer?”

“I just thought—”

“You thought wrong.” She squeezes my arm and gently rubs her thumb across the worn fabric of my used dress. “You’re too busy looking at the shadows, Hannah. Focus on the light.”

“I can’t believe I screwed this up,” I choke out, clapping my hand over my mouth to keep in a sob.

“Hey, Hanns ?” Stephanie’s warm, velvety voice rings out from across the room as she shoots me a megawatt smile. “You coming for a drink? We’re going to Giovanni’s to celebrate the deal!”

I stifle a groan and silently hope the marble floor will open up and swallow me.

Fucking Stephanie. And she totally took credit for the corporate responsibility angle she’d spent the past week shitting all over.

Madelyn and James stand on either side of her, beaming at the hero who swooped in and saved the campaign. Now they’re going to the most expensive bar in the whole city when I can’t even afford a car home. While I sit on a grimy bus in a puddle of snow slush next to someone shouting their medical history into their phone, they’ll be ordering bottles of Veuve and enough small plates to last me a month. The thought alone makes my wallet hurt.

The three of them stare at me, waiting for my answer. I can’t bring myself to look at Madelyn after calling her elderly in front of Brad and my team members. At this point, I have no idea how I’ll ever look at her again.

“My stomach.” I grimace, flattening my palm against my middle and twisting my expression into one that I hope looks like I’m nauseous and not about to have explosive diarrhea. “I’m not feeling so great,” I lie. “The tuna sandwich from that food cart might not have been a great idea.”

“Too bad, Hanns .” Stephanie tsk-tsks, her mouth sliding into an Oscar-winning frown. “Guess we’ll have to have a drink in your honor.”

“Great,” I say, faking a smile that wouldn’t get me a People’s Choice. “I’m gonna head home.”

Jade takes a deep breath as if about to try to convince me otherwise before she thinks better of it. Instead, she offers me a strained grin and heads to join the group, high-fiving Stephanie as they wait for the elevator.

I stand alone in the hallway, my shoulders slumped.

Fucking corner office. Fucking Stephanie.

Her name will be on it next week—thanks to my campaign. And, no matter how much I want to, I can’t even hate her for it. Yeah, she’s a bitch, but I did this. I stepped all over myself and called the owner of my company a boomer. I crashed and burned.

See the door and open it.

How can I open the door when my own mistakes have locked it?