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Now, breathe in... hold... and breathe out.
My focus is thrown off again by a sudden, intense wave of nausea.
Not again...I swallow hard, pressing a hand to my stomach, trying to steady my raging insides.
It's the stress,I tell myself, taking a deep.
The stress of the presentation... and Logan.
I tighten my grip on the edge of the desk, willing the sickness to pass.
Yeah, definitely the stress.I force a small, unconvincing laugh out of my mouth, my other hand massaging my forehead.
The wave of nausea fades, like a sea retreating from the shore. I breathe a sigh of relief, slumping in the chair.
I glance at the clock on my computer screen.
Crap.
It's time.
I collect my notes, the presentation slides and the flash drive, stuffing everything into my bag. My heels click across the floor as I make my way to the elevator that leads up to the conference room. Taking a final deep breath, I step inside the elevator, pressing the button for the top floor.
Ding.
I step out onto the top floor, smoothing down my skirt and adjusting my blazer. I can see Mr. Atwood and the client, Mr. Richardson, through the glass walls of the conference room, along with a few others who make up the big guns of the company.
"Good morning, Mr. Atwood, Mr. Richardson." I extend my hand first to our client and then to my boss. There's a chorus of greetings and a few nods toward my presentation materials.
"Ready to get started?"
I nod, plugging in the flash drive and pulling up the presentation on the projector.
"Absolutely," I declare.
The presentation starts off smoothly. My voice guides the room as I take everyone through my slides, my fingers flying over the keyboard, landing each point with precision. I can feel the energy in the room, the interest of my client. I'm hitting all the right notes.
Everything is going perfectly... until it's not.
Another wave of nausea hits me, sweeping over me like a rogue tide.
I stop mid-sentence, gripping the edge of the podium as I fight against it. Sweat beads on my forehead and the room seems to spin. I swallow hard, trying to smile through it.
“I... I need a moment." I manage to utter, bending as another wave hits.
Not now,I plead.Not here.
I attempt to regain my composure, clutching the edges of the podium tighter. "Apologies, everyone."
The concerned glances from Mr. Atwood and Mr. Richardson follow me as I stumble out of the conference room.
Managing to maintain a shred of dignity, I make my way to the nearest restroom, my heels tapping a staccato rhythm on the tiled floor. I barely make it in time. After a few tormented minutes, the wave of nausea finally recedes. I lean against the cool tiles.
Great, Bailey. What a way to make an impression.
I finally manage to stand up straight, tugging my shirt back into place. I splash some cold water on my face and glance at my reflection in the mirror. My complexion is ashy.
Quite a look, Bailey.
