After dinner, she asked me to walk her out. The night air felt electric, unreal, as if something irreversible had already happened.
“You love Emma,” she said.
“Yes.”
“That won’t convince her parents,” she replied. “But consistency will. And witnesses help.”
She paused, then added, “My foundation is looking for a creative director. Apply. Not as a favor. As a test.”
Before I could respond, she was gone.
Inside, Emma hugged me hard, like she was afraid the moment might slip away if she loosened her grip. Her parents were quieter now. Thoughtful. Recalculating.
I hadn’t won them over.
But the ground beneath me had shifted.
The interview process was unforgiving. Margaret didn’t soften it. Neither did the board. I earned the role through weeks of scrutiny, late-night revisions, and learning how to speak without apologizing for existing.
