The Dating Dilemma by Kelly Collins

Author:Kelly Collins [Collins, Kelly]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Book Nook Press
Published: 2024-03-16T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LIV

My heels keep up their relentless beat on the shiny floor. Slipping into my little corner of the corporate maze, I'm greeted by the familiar cocktail of ink and yet unfulfilled dreams.

My computer flickers on, a beacon in the quiet office. But before I can lose myself in emails, Vicky appears like an ad pop-up that I can't block.

"You're going to want to double-shot your espresso today," she says, dumping a stack of folders on my already cluttered desk. They land with a thud that spells “emergency" in big, bold letters. Vicky leans closer. "The soybean campaign isn't hitting the right notes. It's as dry as the cookies pushing. I want cute, I want adorable. Can't you do that thing you did with Love Bug?"

I glance at the drafts, then back to Vicky. "Love Bug magic was special because it spoke to the heart," I tell her, hoping she'll get it. "That kind of charm doesn't just transfer to any product."

Vicky's tapping her nails, a Morse code for “I don't want to hear it.”

"Liv, spare me the spiel. I need results. Since you're the vegan whisperer, make it resonate. You know, like those bugs reached out to the loveless."

I take a deep breath, trying to ground myself. "Good campaigns need to resonate with what the audience wants, Vicky. Soybeans and dating apps are different beasts. We've got to dig deep, find what makes our beans the main event."

She hits me with a gaze that could freeze coffee. "Use that energy. We're on a deadline tighter than last year's budget," she says, all business and bluster.

I sigh when she's finally gone, her sharp heels echoing down the hall. Staring down the paper mountain on my desk, I try to find a little humor in the chaos. "You mean deadlines tighter than my jeans after Thanksgiving," I whisper to no one, rolling my shoulders back. Time to be the warrior they pay me to be, one pencil stroke at a time.

Not over ten minutes pass before Seb enters the pit and signals for Vicky and me to follow him. Vicky strides ahead, with a self-assuredness I don't feel. I follow, my heart not in the folders and figures but in the lingering fear of inadequacy.

In Seb's office, the air is thick with expectation. He's perched behind his desk like a judge in the final round of some high-stakes talent show.

Vicky wastes no time, firing up her laptop with a flourish. A cartoonish soybean character winks back at us on the screen, grinning like it's in on some joke I can't hear.

As Vicky pitches with the zeal of a street-corner prophet, I stand there, feeling like a fraud. This isn't me. This isn't my work. It's a caricature of a campaign, born from a brief that gave me no room to question or bend. I watch Seb's face. The growing cloud of disappointment in his eyes reflects my own inner turmoil.

When Seb finally speaks, his words are a polite version of a facepalm.

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