The hallway leading to my office hummed with quiet movement, printers running in the distance, muted footsteps, fragments of conversations drifting from the editing floor. I walked toward my office, already rehearsing the tasks lined up for the day, when I noticed a woman standing directly beside my office door.
At first, all I caught was her silhouette, straight posture, hands folded politely, a small white product box pressed neatly against her palm. But as soon as she turned, her face aligned perfectly with her voice from the call the previous day.
Mrs. Emma Harrison.
The client scheduled for the skincare advert.
She smiled immediately. A warm, gracious smile that seemed almost rehearsed, the kind that came naturally to people who built brands for a living.
"Hello, Miss Esmeralda," she said gently.
"Good day, Mrs. Harrison," I replied, unlocking the door swiftly. "I'm truly sorry for keeping you waiting. I came as quickly as I could. Our team just handled a live session with Roslyn just a few minutes ago, and I was supervising the whole activity"
"Oh, please, don't worry about it. I didn't wait long," she answered, waving off the apology.
I pushed the door open and stepped aside for her to enter.
The office was already alive with purposeful activity; ring lights glowing, cameras positioned, sound technicians adjusting their equipment, a soft background sheet already mounted for product shots. The aroma of warm studio air and faint perfume lingered around the space.
Everything was already set.
The preparation had been handled yesterday; scripts reviewed, visual guidelines approved, product integrity checked, and the campaign outline finalized.
"Your team is very coordinated," she said, observing the setup thoughtfully.
I smiled a little. "We've been preparing since yesterday."
Her eyes softened with appreciation. "Well, thank you for that. It makes things much easier."
One of the cameramen walked up with a clipboard. "We're set to begin whenever she's ready."
"Perfect," I replied, stepping aside so she could place her products on the demonstration table.
She arranged them carefully, two bright serum bottles, a moisturizer, and her signature brightening oil. She positioned each product the way only the creator of a brand could, making sure the labels faced the right direction, smoothing her dress, adjusting her hair.
"Alright," she exhaled, "I'm ready."
The lighting team moved into place. The room shifted into production mode, quiet, focused, intentional.
"Audio ready?"
"Ready."
"Camera rolling."
"Action."
The red light blinked on, and Mrs. Harrison transformed.
She spoke clearly, introducing her skincare range, the gentle formulas, the natural extracts, the journey behind the brand. Her movements were fluid, her tone confident, her smile the kind that made people want to listen.
Every second of footage was polished.
As she talked, I checked timestamps, made quality notes, and cross-referenced with the approved outline. Everything was aligning beautifully. Even the creative director leaned in, nodding with satisfaction after each segment.
We were progressing perfectly.
Until my phone vibrated.
Just once.
But it was enough to shift my focus.
I glanced down discreetly.
A message from Ethan.
My pulse tightened.
I shouldn't open it.
I shouldn't look.
Not now.
Not during work.
Not when my emotions were finally beginning to stabilize.
But I tapped the screen anyway.
"Hello Esme,
How busy is your day?
I just wanted us to talk."
My heart swung in my chest.
I swallowed, but the swallow came out stiff and audible. The kind of swallow that announces itself even when you're silent. Heat climbed up my neck. My fingers trembled slightly as I placed the phone face-down on my thigh.
Focus, Esme.
You're working.
But the reaction had shown.
I knew it.
And so did someone else.
"Esme… are you alright?" a concerned voice murmured beside me.
I turned sharply.
Michael.
Information manager. Calm. Observant. The type who could sense tension from across a room.
"I'm fine. Sure… sure, Michael. I'm good," I replied, trying too hard to sound casual.
His expression said he didn't fully believe me, but he wasn't the type to pry unnecessarily.
He nodded and started walking off.
"Hey, Michael?" I called weakly.
He turned around again. "Yes, Esme?"
I hesitated, unsure how to begin.
But I needed to say it.
To someone.
"You must have seen the notice about the upcoming live session with top influencers?"
"It's on the board," he answered.
I breathed in slowly. "Well… I'm kind of scared."
His brows lifted. "Scared of the writing on the board?" he joked lightly.
We both chuckled, but mine came out thin.
"No," I said, exhaling. "Scared because I'm the one chosen to represent the company."
The humor faded from his face.
"Ah," he said softly. "That kind of scared."
He walked back toward me, leaning gently on the side of the desk. He lowered his voice, speaking like someone who had worn this fear before.
"You know… five years ago, I stood exactly where you're standing. I was chosen to represent us at an event I only dreamt of attending. I remember weighing the crowd, looking at the influencers I admired, and trying not to imagine the millions of eyes behind the screen."
I listened carefully, absorbing every word.
"It was pressure, Esme. Real pressure. The kind that feels like someone placed a stone on your chest and said 'Speak.'"
That made me smile faintly.
"But," he continued, "here's what I learned: pressure is simply the proof of trust. They would never send someone they don't believe in."
My breath softened without permission.
"And you?" he added, pointing lightly toward me. "You're one of the most composed people in this building. You're smart, you think before you speak, and you handle things with grace, even when you're rattled."
I inhaled deeply.
His words carried weight because they were rooted in experience, not flattery.
"You think I can really handle it?" I asked quietly.
"Let's just say…" he tilted his head with a knowing smirk "I'm confident."
He squeezed my shoulder lightly and exited the room.
His encouragement lingered long after he left.
Before I could process it fully, my phone vibrated again.
I already knew who it was before checking.
My stepmother.
"Esme, I won't be coming home early, my dear.
I've got so many things to handle."
I sighed softly.
Another lonely evening.
Another night to drown in thoughts.
But I responded with the only reply someone like me could give:
"Okay, ma."
I placed the phone down again.
"Alright, that's a wrap!" the cameraman announced.
The room filled with small applause and relieved breaths.
Mrs. Harrison exhaled joyfully. "That was lovely. Thank you so much, everyone."
"You did beautifully," I told her, helping her repack the products.
She smiled warmly. "Thank you, Esmeralda. You handled everything professionally. I appreciate it."
She left with her assistant and the creative team, discussing follow-up steps.
I sank into the chair for a moment, rubbing my forehead lightly. It had been a productive session; clean, smooth, successful.
Before I could settle back, my phone buzzed again. I glanced at it, expecting another routine notification, but it was my own calendar alert, blinking insistently:
"Live session with influencers – 1 week."
A shiver ran down my spine as I read the note. In a week, all eyes would be on me. Not just my colleagues, not just the influencers, but the entire audience, watching, judging, expecting me to represent the company flawlessly.
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the responsibility pressing against my chest. Could I really step into that spotlight and be everything they expected? Could I rise to the challenge without faltering?
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, my mind a whirlwind of strategies, notes, and doubts. One week. That was all I had to prepare. One week to prove myself… or fail spectacularly.
And in that instant, I realized – this wasn't just about work. It was about me, who I was, and whether I could finally stand tall in my own story.