Chapter 4
1029 Words
The PR review meeting was scheduled for 2:00 PM, which gave Mia approximately forty minutes to panic.
She sat at her desk, pretending to type something important. In reality, she was Googling things like:
“How to survive a meeting you’re not prepared for.”
“PR jargon to sound smart.”
“Can tuna sandwiches cause memory loss?”
Kara passed by her desk again and narrowed her eyes. “You good?”
“Peachy,” Mia replied, minimizing her browser. “Totally thriving.”
“You’re typing into a spreadsheet cell that says ‘potato.’”
Mia looked down. So she was. “It’s a code word. Strategy thing. Don’t ask.”
“Uh-huh.” Kara disappeared into the hallway.
Mia leaned back in her chair and sighed. This wasn’t just some cutesy reincarnation fantasy anymore. This was real. This was a full-time job in a corporate battlefield—and she was the clueless intern disguised as a staff member.
She reached for the iced coffee she’d bribed an intern to fetch her from the third floor and took a sip.
Cold. Bittersweet. Almost as bitter as her soul.
---
1:59 PM.
Mia walked into the small meeting room labeled PR Review Room 3B, clutching a tablet that may or may not have been displaying an old PDF file on skincare marketing.
Inside, Clarisse was already seated at the head of the table, looking like she’d just stepped off the cover of a luxury perfume ad. Her blouse was pristine white, with pearl buttons that probably cost more than Mia’s rent. Her hair was curled in effortless waves. Her smile was already locked and loaded.
“You’re on time,” she said. “That’s rare.”
“I’m working on character development,” Mia muttered under her breath.
Clarisse tilted her head. “Sorry?”
“I said—I’m developing more… consistent attendance habits.”
Clarisse arched one perfect brow. “Mm. Charming.”
Mia sat down across from her, glancing at the file Clarisse slid over.
“So,” Clarisse began smoothly, “this is last quarter’s feedback on our Vexmor branding campaign. You were supposed to summarize client responses and cross-analyze with our online engagement.”
“Right,” Mia said, nodding like a bobblehead. “Of course. The classic… cross-analyze. Big fan of that.”
Clarisse blinked.
Mia faked a cough and tried to flip open the folder without looking like she was cramming.
“Most of the client feedback was positive,” Clarisse continued. “But a few executives noted the tone of our ads felt too… dramatic. Too emotional.”
“Well,” Mia said, suddenly feeling bold, “maybe that’s what sells. People want drama. That’s why they watch telenovelas. Or get emotionally invested in fictional CEOs with anger issues.”
Clarisse blinked. “Are you referring to Drake?”
“Oh, I meant that hypothetically,” Mia said quickly, her mouth now acting on its own. “I mean—people like watching powerful men act like emotionally stunted statues. It’s a genre. It's popular.”
Clarisse’s smile faltered for just a second. “You’re acting strange today.”
“Thanks. I’m trying something new. It’s called not dying tragically in a romance novel.”
Clarisse stared.
Mia cleared her throat. “I mean, metaphorically.”
“I see.”
Clarisse looked down at the document again, but her posture had shifted ever so slightly. The sweetness in her voice was wearing thin.
“You know,” Clarisse said, “I always liked working with the old Selene.”
Mia stiffened. “Oh?”
“She was quiet. Reliable. Knew her place.”
Mia leaned back in her chair, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Wow. That almost sounded like a threat disguised as a compliment. Impressive.”
Clarisse’s eyes narrowed.
“I mean it,” Mia continued, clearly on a roll now. “You have a talent. Like, if passive aggression were a performance art, you'd get a standing ovation.”
Clarisse opened her mouth, then closed it.
“You done?” she asked, voice tight.
“For now,” Mia chirped, flipping to the next page in the report. “Let’s cross-analyze our personal boundaries next.”
Clarisse let out a short laugh, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “We’ll see how long this attitude lasts.”
Girl, you have no idea, Mia thought. I’ve already died once. I have zero patience for bullies in eyeliner.
---
After the meeting, Mia escaped to the break room to regroup. She leaned against the counter, sipping water and staring into space like she was trying to manifest her way back to Earth-Prime.
Then—
“You handled that well.”
She spun around.
Drake Vexmor stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, jacket gone, watching her with an unreadable expression.
“Oh,” she said, blinking. “Hello. I—uh—I thought you didn’t… lurk?”
One eyebrow lifted. “I don’t.”
“Are you sure? Because that was prime lurking just now.”
He walked in, grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, and turned to her.
“I heard about your presentation. You improvised.”
“I did.”
“It worked.”
“I know. I was there.”
He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes flickered. Amusement? Curiosity?
Then he added, “Clarisse didn’t seem pleased.”
“Oh no,” Mia said. “How will I sleep tonight?”
Now he actually smiled. Slight. Barely there. Gone in half a second.
Mia stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Did you just… smile?”
“No.”
“You totally did.”
“Your eyes are deceiving you.”
Mia smirked. “That’s a very main-character thing to say.”
He looked at her. “Are you always like this?”
“Nope. I used to be worse.”
Drake turned away, but she caught him mutter something under his breath before he walked off.
“Interesting.”
Mia blinked. Uh-oh. That’s not in the script. That is not in the original plot.
- Writer
