Chapter Ten

ELENA 

I'm in the office at 5 AM, watching numbers that don’t exist yet.

The campaign goes live at 6. Across I*******m, TikTok, T*****r, YouTube—eight influencers posting at the same time, each with content made for their audience but tied together by one message: Real people. Real products. Real impact.

It’s good work. Maybe the best I’ve ever done.

It’s also a huge gamble. Could blow up spectacularly in my face.

"You're here early."

I spin around. Damien stands in my doorway, two coffee cups in hand. Shirt wrinkled, no tie, dark circles under those impossible blue eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept either.

"I could say the same."

"Couldn't sleep." He steps in, sets a cup on my desk. "Figured you couldn’t either."

The coffee’s from that boutique place three blocks away, not the office machine. My usual order—oat milk latte, extra shot, vanilla.

He remembers.

"You didn’t have to—"

"I wanted to." He leans against my desk, careful to keep distance. "Nervous?"

"Terrified."

"Good. You should be. Means you care."

"I care too much. If this fails—"

"It won’t fail."

"You don’t know that."

"I know you. I know your work." His voice softens. "I know you’ve barely slept or eaten in two weeks because you’ve been perfecting every detail. That level of dedication doesn’t produce failure."

"It could. The metrics might not—"

"Elena." He waits until I look at him. "Breathe."

I try. It comes out shaky.

"When my father died," he says quietly, "I took over the company at twenty-nine. Twenty-nine. Most of the board thought I was too young, too inexperienced, too much of a risk. My first big move was expanding into Asian markets. Everyone said I was insane. That it would bankrupt us."

"But it didn’t."

"No. It tripled revenue in eighteen months. But the night before the launch, I was exactly where you are now. Terrified. Certain I’d destroy everything my father built." He pauses. "You know what he told me once? Fear is just excitement without the breath. So breathe. Let the fear become excitement."

I take a deep breath. Then another.

"Better?" he asks.

"Better."

His phone buzzes. He frowns. "Marcus is already in the building. He wants to ‘monitor the launch in real-time.’"

"Of course he does."

"Looking for ammunition. Anything to prove this was a waste."

"Then I’ll make sure he doesn’t find any."

Damien’s expression softens—pride mixed with something warmer. "That’s my—" He stops. "That’s the spirit."

My. He almost said my something. My what?

Before I can think, Rachel appears, laptop in hand.

"Elena! First posts go live in three minutes. We’re setting up the war room in Conference B. David’s already there with the dashboard."

Right. War room. Where the marketing team watches every metric, every comment, every like in real-time.

Where Marcus catalogs every shortfall.

Where Damien watches me succeed—or fail.

No pressure.

Conference Room B is transformed. Screens show live feeds. David monitors a massive dashboard. Lisa has analytics software running. Rachel coordinates the influencers.

In the corner, arms crossed, skeptical: Marcus.

"Ms. Martinez. Ready for your moment of truth?"

"As ready as I’ll ever be."

"Hmm. Let’s hope ready is enough."

Damien enters behind me. Energy shifts. Everyone straightens. Marcus uncrosses arms.

"Status?" Damien asks.

"First post goes live in ninety seconds," David reports. "@RealTalkRachel has 400K followers, highest engagement rate of our micro-influencers."

I check her I*******m. Post scheduled, caption ready—a photo of Rachel in her kitchen, holding one of our eco-friendly water bottles. Not a polished ad. Real. Authentic. Exactly what we need.

Sixty seconds. Heart hammers.

Thirty.

Damien moves beside me. Not touching. Close enough to feel his presence. Steady. Grounding.

Ten.

"Here we go," David murmurs.

Post goes live.

For five excruciating seconds—nothing.

Then likes. Ten. Fifty. One hundred.

Comments rolling in: "Finally, an ad that doesn’t feel like an ad." "Okay, I actually need this." "When companies get it right >>>"

"Engagement rate 8%," Lisa calls. "Triple our usual."

More posts go live. @GreenLivingMike on TikTok. @FitnessWithJess on YouTube. Each authentic, each real, each better than projected.

"I*******m stories are being shared," Rachel reports. "User-generated content already starting—people posting their own bottles with our hashtag."

"T*****r trending," David adds. "Organic reach expanding."

Numbers climb. Faster than expected. Better than hoped.

Marcus leans closer, skepticism softening. "Website traffic?"

"Up 300% in the last ten minutes," Lisa says. "Conversion rate 12%."

Twelve percent. My projections were eight.

"Product pages crashing," someone calls.

My stomach drops. "Crashing?"

"Too much traffic. Server can’t handle it."

Shit. Shit shit shit.

"On it," David says, phone to ear. "Calling IT. Additional server capacity now."

Five minutes of chaos. The campaign’s success breaking our infrastructure.

Laugh or cry? Can’t decide.

Damien appears at my elbow. "Good problem to have."

"This is a disaster."

"This is success. We just need to catch up."

"Servers back online," David announces. "IT added capacity. Should hold."

Room exhales.

Numbers climb.

8 AM—150% of week-one targets.

9 AM—all eight influencers posted, outperforming projections.

10 AM—trending nationally on three platforms.

"This is…" Marcus trails, staring. "Extraordinary."

Wait for the but. Criticism. Asterisk.

Nothing.

He turns. "I underestimated you, Ms. Martinez. I apologize."

Marcus Vale apologizes. Rare.

"I… thank you."

"Don’t thank me. You earned this." Looks at Damien. "She’s the real deal."

Damien neutral, but I see something flicker—pride. Satisfaction. Warmer feeling banked quickly.

"I told you she was."

Morning bleeds into afternoon. Team eats at stations, monitoring, adjusting, riding success.

Sophia stops me at 2 PM, phone in hand.

"Have you seen Slack?" Messages praising the campaign. Departments I’ve never met congratulating marketing. Congratulating me.

"Elena, you’re a rockstar. Everyone’s talking about you."

"They’re talking about the campaign."

"No. You. About how you turned around our marketing in two weeks. About how you stood up to Blackwood and were right. About how—" She grins. "—we might actually make quarterly targets thanks to you."

Weight settles on my shoulders. Success. Real. Measurable.

"I need air," I say. "Five minutes."

"Go. You’ve earned it."

Elevator to the rooftop terrace. Empty. Just me, city, overwhelming reality.

Lean against railing. Let relief, pride, exhaustion wash over me.

"Thought I might find you here."

Damien’s voice. Not surprising. I knew he’d follow.

"Needed a minute," I say without turning.

"You’ve earned more than a minute. Celebration."

"Only day one."

"Day one of the most successful product launch in five years." He moves beside me. "Board thrilled. Marcus impressed. Team energized. I…" Pauses. "I’m in awe."

I turn to him. "You don’t have to—"

"I’m not saying it as your boss. I’m saying it because it’s true." Voice drops. "You walked in two weeks ago and changed everything. Metrics. Energy. The—" Jaw clenches. "Me. You changed me."

Breath catches. "Damien."

"I know. Wrong time. Wrong place. Agreed to wait until probation ends." Eyes search mine. "But standing here, watching you succeed… I need you to know. Not just about the campaign. Not just that night."

"Then what is it about?"

"You. Just you." Close enough to see gold flecks in blue eyes. "I tried distance. Professionalism. Tried to convince myself this is just attraction or convenience."

"And?"

"Lying. Because this—" Gestures between us. "—is something I haven’t felt in years. Maybe ever."

Confession steals my breath. Rooftop, city below, nothing matters except now.

"I feel it too," I whisper. "God help me, I feel it too."

Hand lifts, hesitates. "If I touch you, I won’t stop."

"Then don’t."

"Elena—"

"We’re alone. No one sees. Two weeks pretending I don’t want this. Can’t anymore."

He kisses me. Different from hotel. Less desperate. More certain. Claiming instead of stealing.

Sink into it. Into him. Release.

Break apart, breathing hard.

"Two more weeks probation," he says against lips. "Then we figure it out."

"Properly how?"

"Don’t know. Can’t pretend you’re just an employee. That night didn’t matter. You don’t matter."

"What if people find out?"

"Let them." Thumb traces cheek. "You proved you’re the best marketing strategist here. Anyone claiming otherwise deals with me."

"Your board won’t like it."

"The board works for me." Pulls back slightly. "Smart. Strategic. No secret meetings. No almost-moments in my office."

"So two weeks?"

"We do our jobs. Professional. Wait." Smile slightly wicked. "Count down days until I take you to dinner like a normal person dating someone he—" Stops. "Someone he cares about."

Dating. Warmth in chest.

"I’d like that."

"Good. Already picked restaurant."

I laugh. "Confident, weren’t you?"

"Hopeful. Difference."

Phone buzzes. Rachel: Where are you? Marcus wants to toast the team!

Reality crashes. "Back?"

"We should." Neither moves.

One more kiss. Soft. Sweet. Promise.

Head back downstairs separately. Professional distance maintained.

Catch his eye in Conference Room B. See it.

Promise. Beginning.

Two weeks, everything changes.

For the first time since that night, I’m not afraid.

I’m excited.