Page 4 of Forced to Marry the Russian Bratva

The Zoom call connects, and I instantly put on a pretty yet polite smile. I’ve practiced it for months now, every morning in front of the mirror, hoping it screams I'm confident but approachable, creative but dependable.

“Hi there! Gela Jones, so great to finally meet you!”

Okay Gela. Make your voice less screechy, will you?

“Hi, Gela. It’s lovely to finally chat,” a man in a suit nods at me from a digital room of half a dozen. I quickly scan the screen and read his name, and instantly recognize him as the head of sales for the company. That’s my guy, I think to myself. He’s the one I have to impress.

I run them through our pitch over the next twenty-five minutes and add in a few well-tuned jokes to keep their attention. By the time I’m wrapping up, I notice the entire room listening in to every word I say.

I break into a smile and put force behind every word.

“—and with targeted campaigns with mommy influencers focusing on the equipment's space-saving design, we can tap into the urban millennial market that your competitors are missing.” I finish and click my fingers for that extra zap.

There's a moment of silence as they register that the pitch is over, and my heart stops. If I fucked up? Well, nothing I can do about it now.

Then, I hear the words I’ve been dying to hear: “This is excellent work, Gela. Really impressive stuff.”

I want to sigh, but instead break into a grin.

“We're reviewing a few proposals this week, but we'll be in touch soon,” the CMO adds. “Honestly? Your approach is exactly what we've been looking for, but we have to go through the process.”

What? Is that an informal confirmation? It sure sounds like one. By now, after the hundreds of pitches I’ve made, I know one when I see one.

The moment the call ends, I slump back in my chair like a deflated balloon, the adrenaline burning through my body.

Holy. Shit.

I allow myself to feel the thrill curve down my entire body before the exhaustion hits.

I worked into the early morning last night, and I only got a couple of hours of sleep. My eyes feel like they’ve just tussled with sandpaper.

I’d love another coffee, but I think what I need most is something fresh that could wake me up just enough so I can get home and hit the sack.

Perhaps a nice tea?

I gather my things and head to the counter, putting in my order for an iced peach tea. The barista, who works here every day at this time, smiles at me.

“You look tired. Long day?”

“I don’t think yesterday ended,” I laugh and start to fumble through my wallet for my card.

“Card machine’s down, hun.” She gives me an apologetic look.

“Oh, no worries.” I begin to fumble through my wallet for cash.

As he rings me up, I realize with horror that I only have a hundred-dollar bill—emergency cash my dad insisted I keep in my wallet “just in case.”

I’m guessing this is not the emergency he had in mind.

“Um, sorry, I’ve only got a hundred,” I say sheepishly and slide it across the counter, but the barista looks even more sheepish.

“I’m afraid we don’t have change, hun.”

“What?” I squeak and begin to dig in my bag now. “I’m sure I have some change…”

But I come up empty-handed.

I look up at her apologetically, resigned to go without the tea. “I’m so sorry, but maybe we can just cancel—”