Chapter 2 I can fix it.

And there it was. The crucial detail I'd forgotten to include. My strategy was based entirely on plastic packaging – the very thing Henderson was trying to move away from.

"I can fix it," I said quickly, though I had no idea how. "I just need fifteen minutes to adjust the slides."

"You don't have fifteen minutes," Margaret hissed. "You have two. Mr. Henderson is already asking where our 'innovative young talent' is." The way she said "innovative young talent" made it clear she was quoting and currently regretting whatever praise she'd given me to the client.

I opened my laptop, fingers trembling slightly as I quickly opened the presentation file, scanning for where I needed to make changes. My mind raced with half-formed ideas, none of them good enough.

This wasn't just another small mistake. This was career-limiting. This was the kind of error that would be remembered during performance reviews, that would come up when I asked for a raise or promotion. Remember that time you nearly tanked the Henderson account because you weren't paying attention?

"One minute," Margaret said.

I stared at my screen, the colorful slides blurring as panic set in. This was the story of my career – always almost good enough, always falling just short. The dream of becoming a marketing director by thirty seemed laughable now. I'd be lucky if I wasn't demoted back to assistant after this disaster.

But then, a moment of clarity broke through the panic. The eco-friendly angle. If I repositioned our entire campaign around Henderson being ahead of the curve on sustainability, emphasized the market differentiation of their paper straw initiative... it could work. It would mean throwing out half my presentation and improvising, but it was my only shot.

"I've got it," I said to Margaret, closing my laptop with more confidence than I felt. "Trust me."

Her eyebrows shot up, clearly communicating that trust was in short supply at the moment. "This better be good, Diana."

As we walked into the conference room, I took a deep breath. I could do this. I'd been preparing for moments like this my entire career – moments where you either rise to the occasion or crash and burn. And I was determined not to burn.

Mr. Henderson, a portly man with ruddy cheeks and an expensive suit, looked up as we entered. "Ah, here she is! Margaret tells me you've got some exciting ideas for us, young lady."

I smiled, ignoring the churning in my stomach. "Indeed I do, Mr. Henderson. In fact, I think you'll find our approach perfectly aligned with your visionary move toward sustainable packaging."

For the next forty-five minutes, I talked more passionately about paper straws than any human being should be capable of. I scrapped slides on the fly, emphasized different data points than I'd planned, and somehow, miraculously, wove together a campaign strategy that centered sustainability as Henderson's market differentiator.

By the time I finished, Mr. Henderson was beaming, Margaret looked stunned but relieved, and I was mentally exhausted.

"Impressive recovery," Margaret murmured as we walked the clients to the elevator. "We'll talk about the preparation issues later, but... good job in there."

Coming from Margaret, this was effusive praise. I should have felt triumphant. Instead, as the adrenaline wore off, all I felt was drained. Another crisis narrowly averted. Another day of proving I deserved my seat at the table.

Back at my desk, I checked my phone to find three texts from my friend Nathan.

Lunch today?

Hello? Earth to Diana?

Guessing you're having one of your Monday meltdowns. Text when you're free.

I smiled despite myself. Nathan knew me too well. We'd been friends since college, and he'd witnessed enough of my workplace dramas to predict the patterns.

Just saved presentation from complete disaster. Need comfort food. Joe's Diner at 1?

His reply was immediate: Already reserving our booth. I expect full dramatic reenactment.

I leaned back in my chair, allowing myself a moment of relief. The Henderson crisis was handled, for now at least. I had lunch with Nathan to look forward to. My job was safe for another day.

But as I opened my email to find sixty-seven unread messages, the familiar restlessness stirred in my chest. Was this it? Would my life always be last-minute saves and narrowly averted disasters? Always feeling like I was playing catch-up to some invisible standard?

There had to be more than this – more than forgotten presentations and dying plants and microwaved dinners for one. I was good at my job, when I wasn't sabotaging myself. I had ideas, real ideas that could make an impact if someone would just give me the chance.

My gaze drifted to the window, to the sprawling city beyond. Somewhere out there was the career I'd dreamed of, the life I'd imagined for myself when I graduated with honors and boundless ambition. It wasn't too late to find it.

My computer pinged with an email from Margaret: My office, 15 minutes. We need to discuss the Henderson situation.

I sighed, closing the brief window of reflection. Back to reality. I had a job to save, again, and dreams would have to wait for another day. I gathered my notes and prepared for Margaret's inevitable lecture, already rehearsing my promises to do better, be better, stay later.