The room was loud.
James with his notepad, perched like he was chairing a board meeting in hell. The PR consultant, Nadia, or Natalie, something bland—wearing a navy dress that looked like it had lost a fight with a zipper. A junior associate cleared his throat every five minutes like it was on a schedule.
Regina sat on the plush cream couch like it was made of thorns. Her back was straight, her legs crossed, her robe cinched too tightly at the waist. She could already feel the beginning of a headache tunneling into her skull.
The coffee table had turned into a war zone. Laptops open. Mugs stained with espresso. A stack of printouts detailing hashtags, heat maps, influencer retweets, Reddit speculation. Words like optics, reputation capital, and social penalty hovered in the air like smoke she couldn't breathe.
