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James is now whispering into Carissa’s ear, and she is pointing him in the direction of God-knows-where.
“Um… collaborative efforts and shared vision that has propelled us forward,” I stammer. “Our company’s success is not only measured by numbers or statistics. It is about the meaningful impact we have made, the solutions we provide, the relationships we build, and the trust we have earned.”
After my speech, I make my way to Carissa as I am no longer able to bear this torture that she has now subjected me to.
“Hi, Jayden,” a young lady steps into my path with a soft smile. Her glasses are a little off-putting as they make her nose look small and clenched.
“Hello,” I respond casually.
“My name is Amy. I’m working on a project…”
I have no interest in what she’s saying. All I care about right now is finding Carissa.
Since everyone is up and mingling, I struggle to follow her with my eyes through the crowd.
“…I was wondering if you could help me with that.”
I look down at the girl in front of me.
“Look, what did you say your name is again?” I ask, getting irritated.
“Amy.”
“Amy, let's have this conversation another day. I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.”
I try to walk past her, but she won't move away.
“When? I know you’re a busy man, but this is very important to me. I chose your company for my research because I’m a huge fan of yours. I have watched all of your interviews…”
At this point, I am growing impatient. I hold up a finger to indicate silence as I search in my breast pocket for my business card but can't find one.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Never mind,” I reply, and just as I raise my head, I catch a glimpse of Lydia walking by.
“Hey, Lydia,” I call to her.
“Yes, boss,” she responds as she stands next to Amy.
“Please give this young lady whatever she needs.” I pat Amy on the shoulder and hurry away despite her protest.
I have now completely lost sight of Carissa. I weave through the guests, stretching and looking around for any sign of her or James.
That bastard. Where has he taken her?
“One picture, sir.” A photographer with a foreign accent stops me in my tracks and begins to take pictures of me.
I struggle to keep my composure and pose for the camera.
“Smile,” he instructs and gestures with his fingers. I obey, hoping the smile is genuine enough for the papers.
“Sir, look here,” one photographer calls from the left.
“Over here, sir,” another calls.
Before I know it, I’m posing for several cameras at a time. I catch a glimpse of Carissa with none other than James Mcwary sharing drinks and chatting not far from where I stand.
