~Karla's Pov~
We're both cross-legged on the couch now, the half-eaten cupcake between us and two mugs of tea resting on a stack of unread magazines.
Tessa kicked off her socks, her black hair now twisted up in a lazy bun as she leaned back and groaned, "Okay, where do I even begin?"
I smile and sip my tea. "Please start with the man who may or may not be a serial killer."
"Oh, Milo's dad? He's not a serial killer," she says dramatically. "He's just… emotionally unstable. But in a poetic, broken-artist way."
I snort. "That's somehow worse."
"He brought me to his friend's lake house," she says, eyes lighting up like she's remembering it all in real time. "We danced on the dock. We had wine under the stars. He made pancakes. Twice. And he gave me a hoodie."
"Ah, yes," I nod. "The international sign of commitment."
"He's probably terrible for me," she says dreamily. "But he listens. Like, actually listens. And I think he's going to a poetry reading next week. Voluntarily."
"Okay, now I'm a little in love with him too," I admit, laughing.
She grins, then leans in. "But what about you? You've been avoiding the Dominic question."
I raise an eyebrow. "There was no Dominic question."
"There's always a Dominic question," she sings. "You've had that look on your face since you walked in."
I sigh and slump against the couch. "We had a one-on-one work session today. Just the two of us. It was intense."
Tessa's eyebrows shoot up. "Intense how?"
"He actually… respected my work," I say slowly. "Challenged me. Made me rework parts of the pitch with him. But in a way that didn't feel like micromanaging. It felt like... he was paying attention. Actually seeing what I can do."
She's silent for a moment, then gives me a sly smirk. "So… he's still rude but also kind of hot when he's not being a robot?"
I toss a throw pillow at her. "He's still a robot."
"An emotionally unavailable robot. My favorite kind."
We laugh, but then my smile fades as the weight of reality creeps in.
"I missed one of my classes tonight," I say softly. "Media Law. It's already a hard subject and I… I just didn't realize the time."
Tessa's expression softens. "Karla, you're doing the work of three people. It's okay."
"No, it's not," I sigh. "School's the reason I came here. I promised myself I wouldn't let the job eat everything else."
She nudges my shoulder. "You're not letting anything eat you. You're surviving. And that counts."
I nod, trying to believe it.
Trying to let myself breathe.
********
The Next Morning
The office is buzzing by 8:00 a.m. sharp. Everyone's in tailored blazers and clipped conversations, printers running, and tablets charging.
Winterwell's marketing reps are already in the conference room when I walk in—five sharply dressed executives with sleek folders and overly polite smiles.
Claudia gives me a small nod from across the room. Dominic stands near the head of the table, silent and unreadable, flipping through his own set of notes.
I take my place, palms sweaty, heart ticking like a metronome on fast-forward.
Dominic glances over, meets my eyes for just a second.
A nod, Small. But enough.
It's my cue.
I take a breath, step forward, and start the presentation.
Slide one.
Then two.
Then three.
My voice steadies as I explain the creative direction, the visual hooks, and the demographic data. I walk them through the pitch as if I've done this a hundred times, not just the one frantic late-night session with him.
They ask questions.
I answer them.
I feel their energy shift—leaning forward, eyes following the visuals, pens clicking to take notes.
By the time I finish, my chest feels light. Like maybe—for the first time—I'm not just someone trying to belong in the room.
I'm in the room.
Dominic clears his throat, stepping forward to close the pitch with some high-level strategy.
But just before he speaks, he glances at me again.
And this time, his nod is sharper.
More sure.
I did it.
And I didn't break.
The conference room empties slowly, like the air is thick with something unspoken.
One by one, the Winterwell execs shake hands, their voices a mix of impressed murmurs and subtle questions for Dominic.
I stay off to the side, trying to look composed even though my heart's still beating like I ran a marathon.
Then one of the women—Marissa, the brand strategist—pauses in front of me.
"You were clear, confident, and had a real sense of audience psychology," she says, offering her hand. "Well done."
I shake it, stunned. "Thank you so much."
"You've got a strong voice. Don't let anyone talk over it."
I smile, genuinely. "I won't."
After they're gone, there's a moment of quiet. Claudia walks over and squeezes my arm.
"That was the best version of that pitch we've seen," she says. "You delivered."
"Thanks," I breathe.
Then I feel it—that presence behind me. Like a shadow that hums with tension.
I turn, and Dominic is standing there, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"Well done," he says simply. "You held the room."
"Thanks," I manage, unsure if I'm imagining the small flicker of something softer in his eyes.
"Most interns would've folded. You didn't."
"Most bosses wouldn't have put them in the room," I reply before I can stop myself.
His mouth twitches, almost a smirk. "Fair enough."
And just like that, he walks away.
But I feel it.
That something is shifting.
*******
I'm back at my desk, running on leftover adrenaline and stale coffee. The glow of the morning is fading but I'm still standing.
A familiar voice interrupts my screen-staring.
"Thought I'd find you hiding here," Liam says, leaning on the edge of my cubicle with that crooked half-smile. "I heard you absolutely owned the pitch this morning."
I spin slowly in my chair, trying not to look too proud. "I didn't pass out. So I'm calling it a win."
He laughs. "More than a win. I saw Claudia's face. She looked like a proud stage mom."
I shake my head. "It was intense."
He nudges a paper cup toward me a new coffee. "You deserve this. On me."
"Bribery?" I ask, taking it anyway.
"Reward," he corrects. "Also, maybe a distraction."
"From what?"
"From the fact that you're clearly spiraling about something else already."
I give a quiet laugh. "That obvious?"
"Only to people who notice things."
His tone is light, but his eyes are sincere.
"I'm trying to hold it together," I admit. "School, work, breathing—it's all a very delicate balancing act."
"Well, you're doing better than you think," he says, settling into the chair beside mine. "You're still showing up. That counts for a lot."
We sit in companionable silence for a moment just me, him, and the quiet lull between deadlines and dinner.
And for now, that's enough.