Terms and Conditions

Rock Bottom

The humming fluorescent lights of the office buzzed faintly above Emily's head, their flickering rhythm matching the pulse that throbbed at her temples. It was nearly midnight, and the entire building had long since gone dark, save for the corner suite she stubbornly refused to abandon. She sat hunched over her laptop, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, hands curled into anxious fists in her lap as the screen displayed the brutal numbers she'd tried to ignore all week.

The spreadsheet wasn't lying. She was running out of time.

And money.

Outside the rain fell steadily against the glass, soft and relentless, blurring the city lights into streaks of red and gold. The familiar ache that lived in her chest, that hollow, gnawing sense of something missing — had been dormant all day, numbed by coffee and desperation. But now, in the stillness of failure, it returned with precision.

Emily Fields was not a stranger to hard work. She had clawed her way through college on scholarships, turned her natural charisma and ironclad discipline into a startup just three years ago, and kept her father out of rehab for nearly eighteen months.

But tonight, her hands were trembling.

The contracts weren't coming through. The investors had pulled out. And her father, her sweet, complicated, broken father — had relapsed again.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, hoping it wasn't what she feared.

Hanna: Hey. Just checking in. Aria says you haven't been sleeping. You okay?

Emily didn't respond. Not because she didn't appreciate it, but because the answer would unravel her. Her friends were trying, and God, she loved them for it. But they didn't know what it felt like to sit at the edge of your dream and feel it slipping through your fingers like water.

The spreadsheet stared back at her.

Two weeks, at most. Then she'd have to let her staff go. Close her doors. Call it a failure.

Her head dropped into her hands. She didn't cry , not really, but the burn in her eyes threatened to betray her.

Then, a knock.

A soft one, barely audible. She stiffened, checked the clock. Nearly 12:30 a.m. The security guard usually made his rounds at one, but he never knocked.

Another knock.

Then an envelope slid under her door.

Emily's heart skipped. She got up slowly, uncertain, and padded across the room. The envelope was thick, heavy, with her name typed in bold across the center.

EMILY FIELDS

CONFIDENTIAL

She picked it up, frowned, turned it over. No return address.

A flicker of instinct, curiosity and unease danced up her spine. Inside: a sleek black folder, a thick ivory envelope, and a business card.

She unfolded the note first.

To Emily Fields,

Your work has caught our attention. We believe your talent and vision are being wasted by the limitations of small minds and smaller investors. If you are interested in seeing what you are truly capable of — and what we are willing to offer — attend the event listed below. Discretion is expected. Your invitation is non-transferable.

— A.D.

Emily blinked. A.D.?

Her eyes flicked to the business card.