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I take a deep breath and stride into the conference room, my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The air is thick with the scent of expensive coffee and barely concealed skepticism. A dozen fast food executives sit around the sleek glass table, their arms crossed, their gazes expectant. They don’t think I can sell them on this. That’s adorable.

I flash my best boardroom smile and place my portfolio on the table with a crispthud.

“Gentlemen. Imagine a plant-based burger that not only tastes amazing, but also aligns perfectly with your brand’s commitment to sustainability,” I say, my voice clear and strong. “Our campaign will position your new offering as the go-to choice for health-conscious and environmentally aware consumers.”

A pause. One executive raises an eyebrow, as if I’ve just suggested they start serving kale milkshakes.

I hold their gaze and continue. “It’s not just another burger—it’s the burger that changes the conversation.”

As I delve into the details of the proposed marketing strategy for their new healthy choice menu item, I can see the executives nodding along, any objections they had planned to raise meltingaway. I highlight the key selling points—the burger’s delicious flavor, its nutritional benefits, and its potential to attract a new demographic of customers. You get a sixth sense about whether your pitch is landing right with an audience and, not to toot my own horn too hard… seven minutes in, I have everyone in the room eating out of my hand.

“By partnering with influencers in the wellness space and leveraging social media, we’ll generate buzz and drive demand for your plant-based option,” I explain, gesturing to the colorful slides projected behind me. “This is an opportunity to establish your brand as a leader in the fast food industry’s shift toward healthier, more sustainable offerings. In a nutshell, my team and I will position your product as a burger that’s good for you, good for the planet, and good for business.”

The lead executive, a silver-haired man with a perpetual frown, clears his throat. “That’s… impressive.”

Damn right, it is.

The polite applause tells me I’ve nailed it. I field questions with ease, keeping my responses tight and strategic.

This is my playground, and I own it.

Just as we’re wrapping up, a man I hadn’t paid much attention to—a tall, dark-haired exec with the confident ease of someone used to getting what he wants—steps forward, smiling.

“Great presentation.” He offers his hand. “Lyle.”

I shake it, firm but brief. “Rachel Holmes.”

“You clearly know your stuff. I’d love to discuss it further. Maybe over dinner?” His smile is smooth, like he already knows the answer.

I return it, but mine is professional, unwavering. “I make it a policy not to mix business with pleasure.”

His expression falters for a split second before he recovers. “Well, that’s a pity.” He hands me his card. “But either way, I look forward to working with you.”

I tuck the card into my portfolio, already moving on. As I stride down the hallway, the familiar rush of success hums in my veins. One step closer to landing this account. One step closer to making partner. My personal life might be a barren wasteland, but my career?On fire.

The truth is, I've always been better at managing brands than people. Crafting narratives and selling ideas come as naturally to me as breathing, but building relationships? That’s where things get messy. At work, everything follows a strategy—objectives, deliverables, measurable outcomes. If a pitch doesn’t land, I can pinpoint why, learn from it, and try again. But in my personal life? There’s no tidy PowerPoint presentation to guide me through the chaos of human connection.

I've spent years perfecting my professional image—the competent, confident, always-prepared woman who can sell anything to anyone. I know how to make an impression, how to leave a room buzzing with ideas and possibilities. But after hours, when the office lights dim and I’m alone in my immaculate, lonely apartment, I feel the weight of that polished veneer crushing me.

I think of my old friends, the ones who slowly drifted away while I was climbing the corporate ladder. Birthday texts that went unanswered, dinner invites declined because of deadlines and meetings. Now, even if I wanted to rekindle those friendships, I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ve wrapped myself in my ambition like a safety blanket, convinced that I don’t need anyone.

But sometimes—just sometimes—I catch myself scrolling through social media, pausing on photos of people I used to know. Laughing in crowded bars, holding hands on beach vacations, watching their kids take their first steps—living their best life. And it hits me, sharp and unexpected: I’ve built a life so perfectly curated that I don’t really fit into it anymore.

I shove the thought away, focusing instead on the rush of victory from the pitch. There’s no room for self-pity today. I won them over, and that’s what matters. I’ll celebrate later—maybe with a glass of something expensive and a quiet toast to myself. After all, who else will?

As I stride down the hallway, still riding the high of the successful presentation, I catch sight of Helen through the glass walls of her office. My boss is the picture of effortless authority, well put together in a tailored navy suit, her manicured fingers laced together. But her expression is unreadable, and that—that—is unsettling.

“Rachel, sit down.”

I lower myself into the chair opposite her desk, still riding the post-pitch high. “What’s up? The meeting went well.”

“It did,” she agrees. “In fact, it went so well that I’m forcing you to take a vacation.”

I blink. “I’m sorry. You’rewhat?”

Helen leans back, studying me like a puzzle she’s just figured out. “You haven’t taken a single day off in eighteen months. You need a break before you break. Two weeks. No arguments.”