My parents were already seated at the large table, looking all serious and business-like. I, meanwhile, was doing my best to not look like a complete idiot. You'd think after that last meeting where I miraculously saved their sorry project, they'd look at me with a bit more trust, but nope. This time they had their "We're still disappointed in you" faces on. Great.
I took a deep breath and sat down, my notebook clutched in hand like it was my only lifeline.
[And here we go,] the system chimed in with a voice full of false enthusiasm. [Another round of 'How long can Amara survive corporate hell before she finally snaps?' I'd put my money on 15 minutes, tops.]
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I muttered under my breath, praying no one noticed.
My mother was the first to speak. "Amara, we need to talk about your next steps with the reality show project."
I blinked. My next steps? Oh, right. Because I single-handedly managed to stop that flaming garbage heap from crashing last time, they actually wanted more. How fun.
"Uh, sure. I've been thinking about how we can implement the new strategy," I began, trying to sound like I hadn't just cobbled together my plan while dodging the copy room filing cabinets.
My father leaned forward, clearly ready to dissect whatever came out of my mouth. "We need specifics. What's the execution timeline? The influencers how are you planning to onboard them?"
Execution timeline? Oh, dear Lord.
[Don't worry,] the system cut in, sounding all too pleased with itself. [Your Strategic Planning Skill (Level 1) can probably give you an execution plan. Might not include how to escape this interrogation alive, though.]
"Right. Uh." I stalled, furiously flipping through my notebook in search of something resembling an actual plan. All I found were doodles of angry stick figures stabbing each other with pencils. Not helpful.
Luckily, my brain didn't betray me for once. "First, we'll need to rebrand the show, as we discussed, but we'll have to stagger the influencer onboarding process. We want fresh faces, right? People who haven't been overexposed yet. That way, the audience will be drawn in by curiosity rather than pure recognition."
To my surprise, my father nodded, looking almost impressed. I say almost because, let's be real, my dad's never been impressed with anyone except his own reflection.
My mother, however, wasn't letting me off that easy. "And what about the budget? You're talking about marketing, rebranding, new talent… This isn't going to come cheap."
I felt a bead of sweat form on my forehead. Budget? I'm just trying to keep my head above water here. I didn't sign up to be the budget police.
[Pro tip: when they ask about the budget, just nod confidently and throw out some random numbers. Everyone loves numbers.]
I resisted the urge to tell the system to shut up. "Well, we can start by cutting unnecessary expenses from previous marketing strategies. Focus more on organic growth through social media rather than expensive ad campaigns. The goal is authenticity, remember? The more genuine it looks, the less we need to spend."
That was met with silence. But, importantly, it wasn't angry silence. Which, in my world, was as good as applause.
"Very well," my mother finally said, exchanging a glance with my father. "We'll trust you with this for now. But remember, this is a high-stakes project. A single misstep could cost the company millions."
No pressure, right?
[Oh, no pressure at all, Amara. You only have the weight of an entire company on your shoulders. And, you know, if you screw this up, your parents will probably never let you live it down. But no biggie!]
I fought the urge to rub my temples. "I understand."
My father, Gerald Lyselle, leaned back in his chair, watching me with the intensity of a hawk waiting for its prey to flinch. "You've done well so far, Amara. Better than we expected."
That's right, Dad. Aim high. Your expectations were barely hovering above rock bottom, so I appreciate the faint praise.
"However," he continued, "this project requires someone with experience to help guide you through the next phase."
Of course. Because how could I possibly manage without some corporate babysitter breathing down my neck? I clenched my jaw and forced a smile. "That makes sense."
Does it, though? Because last time I checked, I was doing a pretty damn good job of not crashing this reality TV project into the ground. But sure, send in the cavalry.
Helena Lyselle, my mother, crossed her arms, the picture of composed elegance as always. "We've assigned someone to assist you. He's worked on several high-profile projects and has the kind of experience we think will be invaluable."
My stomach dropped. I could already imagine the kind of person they'd send. Probably some overly confident, slick-haired corporate puppet with a clipboard and a superiority complex. Just what I needed.
[Oh, this is going to be good,] the system chimed in, clearly relishing my misery.
"Who is it?" I asked, dreading the answer.
My parents exchanged a look, and my father cleared his throat. "His name is Felix Brandt. He's been with us for a while, handling some of our more… delicate projects."
Delicate projects? That didn't sound promising. Probably code for 'he's a micromanaging control freak.'
"Felix will meet with you tomorrow to go over the next steps," Helena added, her tone making it clear that this was not a suggestion.
Fantastic. Just what I needed. Another person to monitor my every move. Because clearly, having my parents breathing down my neck wasn't enough.
"I look forward to meeting him," I said, trying to sound polite while mentally preparing myself for the inevitable headache Felix Brandt would bring into my life.
[Bet you ten bucks he's the type who sends emails at 3 AM just to remind everyone he's 'working hard,'] the system snickered.
"Anything else?" I asked, hoping we could wrap up this delightful meeting before I exploded from sheer frustration.
My father shook his head. "No, that will be all for now. We'll expect a full report after you meet with Felix."
"Of course," I replied through gritted teeth, already imagining all the ways this could go horribly wrong.
As I stood up to leave, Helena gave me one last, piercing look. "Remember, Amara. This is an important project for the company's future. We're counting on you."
No pressure or anything. Just the weight of an entire media empire and the future of reality television sitting on my shoulders.
[You've got this,] the system chimed in sarcastically. [What's one more insufferable corporate drone in your life?]
I didn't even bother responding. I'd save my energy for tomorrow when I'd have to deal with Felix Brandt and whatever fresh hell he'd bring with him.