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Jessie is halfway to the door when I say, “So you’ll help me?”

Jessie stops but doesn’t turn around right away. Her hand rests on the doorknob like she’s weighing the exit. Then she turns—slow, suspicious, like I’ve just offered her a free trial with no catch.

“You mean it?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She lets out a sigh, like she's calculating the emotional labor cost of re-engaging with my chaos. Her eyes narrow, not unkind, but definitely wary. Like I’m a slightly dangerous dog she’s fed before.

She raises an eyebrow. “No backup plan? No subtle pitch? No seven-layer logic pyramid about how this helps your brand and singlehandedly repairs your public image with a well-timed tear and a humble flex?”

“No.”

“Not even a vibe deck?”

“Jessie.”

Another pause. She steps back into the room, and tosses her bag onto the couch reclaiming territory. Then she sighs again—less frustrated this time, more resigned to the fact that she is, against all professional judgment, still part of this plot.

“All right,” she says. “I’ll help. But if this turns into another stunt—if there’s even a whiff of brand strategy—I’m out.”

“Deal. ”

“And not just out. I mean full Team Emily. Matching merch, TikTok duets, probably a group chat with your mother. Don’t test me.”

I manage a smile, more reflex than joy. “Understood.”

“You do know this is going to be awful, right? The energy in that room is going to be like: ‘Welcome back, here’s your accountability sandwich, we spit in it a little.’”

“Yeah. I know.”

“And you’re still doing it?”

“Yes.”

Jessie grins. “Honestly? That’s kind of hot. Stupid, but hot.”

She leaves.

I stare at the spot where my laptop sits. Where my voice usually fills the room. Where metrics and scripts and thumbnails run my day.

Not this time.

Whatever happens next—I don’t get to script it.