Twenty minutes. Jake wants perfection in twenty minutes, and I've got a dead coffee machine, a burning smell, no backup plan, and an intern who just proved he shouldn't be trusted with a butter knife, let alone precision electronics.
But desperate times call for desperate measures.
"Noel," I say, and he looks up from where he's still staring at the mechanical carnage like he's mourning a family pet. "How fast can you run?"
"I mean, pretty fast? I ran a 1:56 in the 800 meter in highscho–"
"Great. Here's what's going to happen – Call maintenance to fix the smell." I pull up the Ninth Street Espresso app and start placing the largest order they'll allow. Premium single-origin, dark roast, light roast, decaf for the one inevitable investor who'll ask for it. "You're going to sprint to their location on MacDougal, tell them it's a corporate emergency, and get back here with enough coffee to caffeinate twenty venture capitalists before they realize we're improvising and decide to pull their funding."
His eyes widen like I've asked him to perform open-heart surgery. "What if I spill it?"
"Then you better pray I'm in a forgiving mood." I finished the order—$240 for coffee that supposedly tasted better than liquid gold. "And Noel? Get pastries. The fancy ones. These people judge everything, including our catering choices."
He's already grabbing his jacket, patting his pockets for his wallet. "How will I carry that much coffee? And what if they don't have it ready? What if—"
"Figure it out. You're the one who thought YouTube could teach you espresso machine repair."
I watch him bolt toward the elevators, and for a split second I wonder if I've just made the biggest mistake. Noel trips over flat surfaces on regular Tuesday mornings. Asking him to navigate Manhattan traffic while carrying forty dollars worth of liquid caffeine might be like asking a tornado to deliver the mail.
But I don't have another choice. For some reason, these rich people really care about having good coffee.
The conference room is a disaster that would make a reality TV show producer weep with joy. Someone left yesterday's presentation materials scattered across the mahogany table like confetti after a very boring party. There are coffee rings on the glass surface—ironic, considering our current coffee crisis. The smart board is still displaying last week's brainstorming session about user engagement metrics, complete with my slightly unhinged handwriting in red marker when I got passionate about conversion rates.
I've got eighteen minutes to transform this mess into something that screams "invest millions of dollars in us" instead of "we can't even keep our conference room clean."
I start with the basics—clearing the table, wiping down surfaces with the cleaning supplies someone thankfully left in the cabinet. Every movement has to be precise and efficient. I adjust the chairs so they're positioned exactly eighteen inches from the table edge. Everything has to be perfect. These investors don't just fund apps; they fund confidence. One misaligned chair or smudged screen could signal that we're not detail-oriented enough to handle their money.
While I work, my mind runs through worst-case scenarios. What if Noel gets lost? What if he drops everything? What if the coffee shop is closed for some random reason, like a burst pipe or a surprise health inspection? What if—
My phone rings. Carmen.
"What?"
"Please tell me you're not having a pre-meeting panic attack again," she says without preamble. I can hear traffic in the background—she's probably walking to one of her wedding consultations, coffee in hand, living the kind of stress-free morning I can barely remember.
"You guessed right. Our coffee machine died and the room smells like burnt metal. On top of that I sent the intern on a mission that could honestly end in a complete disaster."
"The cute one with the dog?"
"He's not cute, he's catastrophic. And yes, the one with Luna." I balance my phone between my shoulder and ear while arranging printed materials into perfect stacks. "Carmen, what if this whole thing falls apart? What if they take one look at our makeshift coffee service and decide we're not professional enough?"
"Mija, breathe. You know this presentation backwards and forwards. And these I could promise you these investors care more about the product than the coffee you're serving.
Easy for her to say. Carmen never had to pitch to people who could buy and sell her entire company before lunch, then forget about it by dinner. But she is right about me knowing this presentation. I've rehearsed it so many times I could probably deliver it in my sleep. ConnectNow isn't just another dating app cluttering the app store. We've solved problems that Tinder and Bumble never even acknowledged existed.
"Besides," Carmen continues, "remember what happened at the Morrison wedding last month? The caterer showed up two hours late, the cake collapsed, and the groom's father started a fight with the DJ. But you know what? Sarah and David are still married, still happy, and they keep telling people it was the most memorable wedding they've ever been to."
"This is slightly different from a wedding cake emergency."
"Is it though? Both involve keeping difficult people happy while everything falls apart around you."
Fifteen minutes.
As maintenance clears the smell, I connect my laptop to the smart board and run through the slides one more time, even though I could recite them in my sleep. Market analysis—dating app industry projected to reach $8.4 billion by 2024. User demographics—our target market of professionals aged 25-35 represents the highest spending power in online dating. Monetization strategy—premium features, in-app purchases, strategic partnerships. Competitive advantages—our AI matching algorithm that considers compatibility metrics beyond physical attraction.
The numbers are solid. Our beta testing showed engagement rates thirty percent higher than industry standard, user retention at sixty percent after three months compared to the industry average of thirty-five percent. We're not just another swipe-right platform designed to keep people endlessly scrolling; we're actually helping them find meaningful connections.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: "This is Noel. Borrowed phone from coffee shop owner. They're making fresh coffee but it'll take 8 minutes. Should I wait or bring what they have ready now?"
Eight minutes plus travel time puts us right at the wire. I text back: "How much do they have ready now?"
"Enough for 12 people maybe? Also they have amazing almond croissants."
That'll have to do. Better to have adequate coffee than perfect coffee delivered after the meeting starts. "Get it and run. If you fall I'm going to kill you. Get the croissants too."
"Running now. Wish me luck."
Twelve minutes.
Jake appears in the doorway, and I can tell from his expression that he's shifted into full-scale CEO mode. His tie is perfectly knotted—probably took him at three attempts in the elevator to get the dimple exactly right. His hair is styled with enough product to look effortless and elegant. He's carrying himself like a man who's about to close the deal of his career, which, frankly, seems pretty convincing.
"Status report," he says, scanning the now-pristine conference room with approval.
"Presentation ready, room set, coffee incoming."
"Incoming?" His eyebrow raises slightly. Jake has a talent for conveying entire paragraphs of concern with minimal facial expressions.
"Minor technical difficulties with the machine. Resolved." I gesture vaguely toward the break room where our deceased espresso maker still sits in state.
He nods, satisfied. Jake doesn't care about problems; he only cares about solutions. It's probably why TechNova has survived when so many other startups crashed and burned in the unforgiving landscape of New York tech. He learned early that investors don't want to hear about obstacles—they want to see results.
"Good. Sarah Chen specifically mentioned looking forward to our coffee when I spoke with her yesterday. Apparently, she's particular about her caffeine."
Great. No pressure.
Ten minutes.
I can hear voices in the hallway—our investors arriving early because of course they are. Rich people are never late; they just reset everyone else's schedule to accommodate their convenience. It's like they exist in a parallel universe where time bends to their will and the rest of us scramble to keep up.
I do a final check of everything. Presentation slides loaded and ready. Handouts stacked neatly at each place setting. Water glasses filled to precisely the same level. Pens arranged parallel to the paper. Everything that's within my control is perfect.
Eight minutes.
The elevator dings, and I hear Jake's voice shifting into charm mode as he greets the investors. Handshakes, weather small talk about the unseasonably warm November morning, the ritual dance of people who are about to discuss eight-figure investments like they're ordering lunch.
"...pleased you could move the meeting up," Jake is saying. "Valeria has been looking forward to presenting ConnectNow's launch strategy."
Six minutes.
Where the hell is Noel?
I text him again: "Status?"
No response. He's probably sprinting through Washington Square Park, praying to every deity that he doesn't trip over a tourist or crash into a food cart.
Four minutes.
I run through my opening lines one more time. "Good morning, and thank you for joining us for the launch of ConnectNow. In the next thirty minutes, I'm going to show you how we're about to revolutionize the way people find meaningful connections in the digital age." Strong opening. Confident without being cocky.
Three minutes.
Jake appears at the conference room door with five people in expensive suits that probably cost more than my monthly rent. I recognize two of them from their LinkedIn photos—Sarah Chen from Redwood Ventures, known for her early investments in social media platforms, and Marcus Webb from Innovation Capital, who has a reputation for asking brutally direct questions that expose every weakness in a business model.
The other three look like they could buy Manhattan before dinner and still have enough left over for a Broadway show. There's an older woman with silver hair and eyes like a shark—probably Patricia Donovan from Summit Partners, a younger man with a perfectly styled beard and an Apple Watch that probably costs more than my car, and someone who looks like they stepped out of a financial magazine cover story about "40 Under 40 Power Players."
"Valeria, I'd like you to meet our investors," Jake says, and launches into introductions.
I shake hands and make appropriate responses, but my brain is calculating backup plans. If Noel doesn't show up with coffee, I can probably pivot and turn this into a demonstration of our company's agility under pressure. "At TechNova, we believe in adapting to unexpected challenges, just like our users do in their dating lives." Or I can own the situation completely and use it as a metaphor for innovation—sometimes the best solutions come from disrupting the status quo.
Two minutes.
"I'll just grab us some coffee," I say, and step into the hallway just as the elevator doors open with a cheerful ding.
Noel stumbles out carrying what looks like a small cardboard city. He's got coffee carriers stacked three high in his arms, another carrier balanced precariously in one hand, and a large bag of pastries hanging from his wrist like an expensive purse. Sweat is dripping down his face despite the November weather, and his hair looks like he stuck his finger in an electrical socket.
"Please tell me you didn't drop anything," I whisper, rushing to help him.
"Only my dignity," he pants, "and maybe a little coffee on the lobby floor when I tried to get on the elevator. But I got extras in case of spillage, and the owner gave me free pastries because she said I looked like I was about to have a panic attack."
I grab two of the carriers, and we rush into the conference room. The investors are settling into their chairs, checking phones and making small talk about market volatility and whether the Fed will raise interest rates again.
"Freshly brewed from Ninth Street Espresso," I announce, setting the coffee on the side table with what I hope looks like casual confidence instead of barely controlled relief. "I thought we'd start with their signature single-origin blend."
Sarah Chen's face lights up like I've just offered her a million dollars. "Perfect. They have the best single-origin blends in the city. I stop there every morning before work."
Crisis officially averted.
As I distribute cups and organize pastries—which, to Noel's credit, look absolutely perfect—I catch him hovering in the doorway. He's still breathing hard from his sprint across Manhattan, his shirt has a coffee stain shaped vaguely like Italy, and there's a line of sweat along his hairline. But he's grinning like he just won the lottery, and when Patricia Donovan compliments the almond croissants, he actually blushes.
"Thank you," I mouth to him.
He gives me a thumbs up and disappears, probably to deal with whatever maintenance emergency is waiting for him next. Or maybe to finally fix our murdered espresso machine, though at this point I'm not sure even professional repair services could resurrect it.
I take my position at the front of the room, connect my laptop to the smart board, and look out at five people who collectively control more money than the GDP of most small nations. They're sipping their coffee—our miraculously acquired coffee—and looking attentive.
"Good morning," I begin, "and thank you for joining us for the launch of ConnectNow. In the next thirty minutes, I'm going to show you how we're about to revolutionize the way people find meaningful connections in the digital age."
Jake settles into his chair at the head of the table, and I can see him relax slightly now that his perfect launch day is back on track. The investors are nodding, making notes, and asking questions. Sarah Chen takes another sip of her coffee and leans forward with interest when I explain our AI matching algorithm.
Everything is exactly as it should be.
The only problem, I can't stop thinking about Noel running across Manhattan with enough coffee to save my presentation, sweating through his shirt and probably terrifying pedestrians with his determined sprint because he knew I needed this to work. I feel bad. He didn't have to do that. He could have called and explained that the coffee would be late, or suggested we apologize to the investors and reschedule.
"I'll apologize to him later, maybe I'll buy him lunch from somewhere other than the sad sandwich cart in the lobby." I thought.