Chapter 1

Gabrielle

I push through the revolving doors of the Solar Vista building, the Chicago skyline reflected in its gleaming glass exterior. I hurry across the lobby, each step a percussive reminder of the pitch waiting upstairs. Sixty-second elevator ride to the thirty-eighth floor. Just enough time to center myself.

"Morning, Ms. Cooke." The security guard tips his head.

"Morning, Carl. Cubs win last night?"

"Don't even get me started." He laughs, scanning my badge.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ping. I step inside, straighten my blazer, and check my reflection in the mirrored wall. My curls are holding up despite the Chicago humidity, and the bold red lipstick was definitely the right choice this morning. Power color for a power pitch.

The marketing department buzzes with Monday morning energy when I arrive. I nod to a few colleagues as I make my way to my office, dropping my bag on the chair.

"Ten minutes till the Weber meeting," my assistant calls through the open door.

"Thanks, Zach."

I pull up the presentation on my tablet, flicking through the slides I've practically memorized. The campaign concept is solid—innovative without being gimmicky, memorable without trying too hard. The market research backs every claim. The mockups are clean, professional, with just enough edge to stand out.

So why is my stomach twisting itself into knots?

I tap my stylus against the desk, the rhythm matching my heartbeat. Three months of work. Three months since Brandon walked out, claiming I was "too focused on my career." Three months of rebuilding myself from the inside out.

"You've got this," I whisper, but the words sound hollow.

My finger hovers over the slide showing projected engagement metrics. What if they're too optimistic? What if the board sees through me? What if I'm not as good as I think I am?

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the doubt that's crept in like Chicago's winter chill. This campaign is brilliant. I know it is.

Don't I?

The notification on my phone interrupts my spiral. Five minutes until the meeting. I stand, smoothing down my skirt and taking a deep breath. My reflection in the office window shows a woman trying desperately to look more confident than she feels.

This is what I'm good at. This is what I do. The one thing Brandon couldn't take from me when he walked out.

Even if sometimes, in moments like this, I wonder if it's enough. If I'm enough. If throwing myself into work is just another way to avoid facing what's broken inside me.

I grab my tablet and head toward the conference room, passing through the open workspace where our design team clusters around a monitor, their excitement palpable even from here. Solar Vista's creative energy is the one constant I can count on.

"Gabi!" Mia waves me over, her chunky bracelets jangling. "You're presenting the Weber campaign today, right? That mockup you showed me last week was fire. Seriously, you've outdone yourself."

"Thanks." I smile, grateful for the boost when I need it most. "Fingers crossed the board feels the same way." I clutch my tablet tighter, trying to channel Mia's confidence into my shaky hands. This presentation isn't just about the campaign—it's about proving I'm still standing.

As I turn to continue toward the conference room, I spot Richard across the office. He's leaning against a desk, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, laughing at something one of the developers is saying. Even from here, I can see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs genuinely.

A memory surfaces—Richard and I working late on the Harrington project last year, ordering way too much Thai food and creating ridiculous slogans that would never see the light of day. By midnight, we were both punch-drunk with exhaustion, him sprawled in his chair while I sat cross-legged on his office floor, both of us laughing until tears came.

"Earth to Gabrielle." Zach appears at my elbow, handing me a coffee. "You're staring."

"I'm not staring. I'm... strategically observing."

"Right." He smirks. "Your 'strategic observation' has been going on for about thirty seconds."

I roll my eyes and accept the coffee. "Thanks for this. I need the caffeine."

Richard looks up then, catching my gaze across the room. He gives me a quick nod and that half-smile that's become our silent greeting. It's a small gesture, but familiar—the kind that develops between people who've shared late nights troubleshooting crises and early mornings celebrating wins.

Working for Richard has never felt like working for a typical CEO. Despite his reputation as a hardass with competitors, he's always given me space to take creative risks, to voice my opinions even when they contradict his. Three years ago, when my campaign idea bombed spectacularly, he took the heat from the board and then took me for a drink afterward, where we dissected what went wrong without a hint of blame.

"You coming?" Zach gestures toward the conference room.

"Yeah." I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders. "Let's do this."

I stride into the conference room, tablet in hand, confidence in my posture. The executive team is already seated around the polished table. Richard strides in behind me, sending me a subtle nod as he makes his way towards the head of the table.

"Gabrielle, we're eager to see what you've got for us." Richard's voice carries that authoritative edge that commands the room's attention.

I connect my tablet to the display, and my presentation fills the screen. "The Weber account represents an opportunity to redefine how tech intersects with everyday life."

As I move through the slides, my voice grows stronger. This is my element. My sanctuary. The one place where I know exactly what I'm doing.

"Our research shows that consumers want products that feel both cutting-edge and intuitive," I explain, gesturing to the market analysis. "The campaign leverages that tension."

The board members nod along. I catch Richard leaning forward, interested. The validation sends a warm current through me.

But beneath the surface, Brandon's voice creeps in. You're so cute when you think people are actually listening to your ideas.

I blink the memory away, refocusing on the mockups I'm presenting. "We're proposing a multi-platform approach that—"

Remember that dinner with my colleagues? When you tried explaining marketing trends and Jim cut you off? You should've seen your face.

My hands tighten around the tablet. That night, Brandon had laughed along with his colleagues, then later told me I should "stick to looking pretty" at business functions. Those pretentious law school assholes.

"—which should increase engagement by approximately thirty-eight percent in the first quarter alone," I continue, refusing to let the ghost of Brandon derail me. I click to the next slide, showcasing the bold visuals our team created. "The aesthetic is deliberately provocative while maintaining brand integrity."

"I like the direction," Richard comments, his blue eyes focused intently on the screen. "It's bold. Exactly what Weber needs."

The praise steadies me. This is why I throw myself into work. Here, my ideas matter. Here, I'm valued for my mind.

"You'll never be taken seriously," Brandon had whispered the night he left. "You're just not built for this world, Gabi."

I take a deep breath, pushing through the final points of my presentation with renewed determination. The memory of Brandon fades as I answer questions from the board, my responses sharp and well-reasoned.

"Impressive work, Gabrielle," Richard says as the meeting concludes. "Let's move forward with this."

The meeting room buzzes with approving murmurs as I conclude my presentation. Board members exchange impressed glances, and several colleagues give me supportive nods. Their validation should feel like a victory—it's everything I've been working toward.

"The integration of social media triggers with the traditional campaign elements is particularly innovative," says Janet from Finance, typically our toughest critic.

"Thanks," I smile, gathering my materials. "Our team really pushed the boundaries on this one."

But even as I accept their praise, something hollow echoes inside me. Each compliment feels like it's directed at someone else—this polished, professional Gabrielle who stands before them with perfect posture and all the right answers. Not the real me who spent last night stress-eating ice cream straight from the container while watching reruns of cooking shows.

I disconnect my tablet from the projector as the room empties. My hands move with practiced efficiency while my mind drifts. How much of my life has become this performance? This constant effort to prove Brandon wrong?

"That was exceptional work."

Richard's voice pulls me back to the present. He's lingering by the conference table, everyone else already gone.

"Thanks," I say, sliding my tablet into its case. "I appreciate the support."

"I don't just mean the campaign." He leans against the table, arms crossed. "I mean the way you handled yourself. The board was testing you with those questions, and you didn't flinch."

I force a smile. "Just doing my job."

"Gabrielle." His tone makes me look up. His eyes are serious, searching. "You good?"

For a split second, I consider telling him the truth—that I feel like an imposter in my own skin, that Brandon's voice still whispers doubts in my ear, that sometimes I wonder if I'm just going through the motions of success without feeling any of it.

Instead, I nod. "I'm good. Really good, actually. And thank you, Richard. For backing my ideas there. It means a lot."

"You don't need my backing. Your work speaks for itself." He straightens up, checking his watch. "Meeting with investors in ten. Keep me updated on the Weber rollout."

As he walks away, I exhale slowly. Even with Richard—perhaps especially with Richard—I can't drop the mask. Can't risk showing the cracks in my carefully constructed facade.