Chapter 11

- Renee

Conference Room B at Halcyon Creative was a glass box on the third floor that smelled like burnt coffee and resignation. Six of us sat around a table slightly too big for the space, staring at the wall-mounted screen where the latest round of mockups for the Aura rebrand glowed in all their mediocre glory. Soft lavender gradients bleeding into sage green. Rounded sans-serif type so inoffensive it was practically apologizing for existing. Stock photos of ethnically diverse twentysomethings meditating on clifftops. It looked exactly like every other wellness app on the market, and apparently that was fine with everyone but me.

I'd been a Senior Visual Designer at Halcyon for three years. When Della Osman was running the creative department, that title had weight. Della fought for good work. Della told clients when their instincts were wrong. Then Della got "restructured" four months ago for the unforgivable sin of having standards, and Petra Vance slid into her chair like she'd been waiting in the wings with a stopwatch. Petra sat at the head of the table now, scrolling through her phone with one hand while nodding at whatever was being said, her signature move. She was the kind of woman who looked like she'd been assembled from a catalog of executive accessories: honey-blonde hair blown out to a shine that probably cost two hundred dollars a session, cheekbones that caught the fluorescent light just so, and a fitted blazer over a silk camisole that showed exactly enough collarbone to suggest confidence without crossing into territory that might frighten the clients. Her legs were crossed under the table, one heeled foot bobbing lazily, and her nails were painted the exact shade of muted rose that said "I'm approachable but in charge." She was gorgeous in the way a showroom car is gorgeous, all surface and no engine. I hated that I noticed. She'd approve the mockups. She'd approve anything. Petra's entire creative philosophy could be summed up as "ship it."

"I think this direction really captures the client's vision," Maren Voss said from her seat at the center, tapping her pen against her notepad with the easy authority of someone who knew the client's budget by heart. "Fresh but approachable. That's what they asked for."

Maren was built like trouble. Dark auburn hair that fell in loose waves past her shoulders, the kind that looked effortless but definitely wasn't. Wide-set hazel eyes under thick brows, a sharp jaw softened by full lips that always seemed to be on the edge of a smirk. She wore a fitted black turtleneck tucked into high-waisted trousers that traced the curve of her hips in a way that I'd caught myself, and every straight man in the building, tracking more than once. Her voice had this low, warm quality that made everything she said sound reasonable, even when it wasn't. Especially when it wasn't. She was the Project Manager for the Aura account, magnetic in a way that made people want to agree with her, and she knew it.

Tristan Cole, our Junior Designer, nodded from across the table like she'd just unlocked the secret to cold fusion. He was maybe twenty-five, with a mop of sandy brown curls he was always pushing out of his eyes, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and the kind of lean, restless energy that came from too much coffee and not enough sleep. He dressed well for his age, fitted chinos and clean sneakers, but everything about his body language was oriented toward Maren like a satellite dish locking onto a signal. "Totally. The gradient work is really elegant. Very current." He said, his laptop angled so Maren could see his screen, the same way it had been angled toward her in every meeting for the past month. The kid had genuine talent buried under that crush, somewhere, but right now all of it was being funneled into validating whatever came out of her mouth.

Preston Ward, Account Director, sat with his hands folded on the table, his posture as starched as his collar. He was mid-forties, broad-shouldered in a way that had probably been athletic once but had settled into boardroom bulk. Thinning dark hair combed back precisely, a square face kept clean-shaven, and small grey eyes that moved like a camera, always assessing, always calculating the safest angle. His suits were expensive in a tasteful, forgettable way, and his ties were always a crime against aesthetics. Today's was a muted paisley that made me want to set it on fire. He surveyed the mockups with a satisfied expression, the kind he wore whenever the work was safe enough not to spook a client. His gaze slid past me the way it always did, briefly, like acknowledging my existence cost him something. Last week he'd forwarded my concept deck to Petra with the subject line "alternative direction (probably too niche)" without even discussing it with me first. He'd CC-ed me on the email, as if that was a perfectly alright thing to do in plain sight. The parenthetical had done its job.

At the far end of the table, Wren Asher sat very still, her pen hovering over a notepad full of notes she would never share out loud. She was slight, almost delicate, with mousy brown hair cut to her chin and round tortoiseshell glasses that were slightly too big for her face, giving her a permanent look of mild surprise. She dressed in earth tones that seemed designed to help her disappear into whatever background she was nearest to, today a beige cardigan over a cream blouse that practically camouflaged her against the conference room walls. Our Senior Content Strategist caught my eye for a fraction of a second, and I saw it again, that flicker of agreement she'd never voice. She looked away first. She always looked away first.

"Let's move forward with this direction," Petra said without glancing up from her phone. "Preston, client deck by Wednesday?"

"Consider it done."

I leaned back in my chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. The meeting continued around me like water around a rock, everyone flowing in the same direction except me. I'd already pitched my version. Bold color palette, distinctive illustration work, typography with actual personality. Petra had called it "interesting but aggressive." Preston had smiled that thin smile and suggested we "keep the client's comfort zone in mind." Tristan had agreed with Maren's preference for the safe route. Wren had stared at her notepad.

The usual.

I uncapped my pen, drew a small spiral on my notepad, and said nothing. There was a hot, tight feeling behind my sternum that I recognized as the particular breed of anger that comes from being right and being ignored at the same time. It wasn't new. It had been building for months, accumulating like sediment, layer after layer of compromised work and swallowed objections.

I capped the pen and stared at the lavender gradients on the screen, letting the annoyance settle into its familiar groove.

Petra finally looked up from her phone, her eyes finding me with that particular expression she wore when she remembered I existed. "So, what does our new Owner think about the color story? Any thoughts on the gradient direction?"

The word landed in the room like a small stone dropped in still water. Preston's eyebrows rose a fraction. Tristan looked up from his laptop, glancing between me and Petra with obvious surprise.

"Owner?" Preston asked, his tone carrying mild curiosity and nothing more, like he'd just learned I drove a different car than he'd assumed. "Since when?"

"Recent development," I said, keeping my voice flat. The room absorbed the information the way it absorbed everything, briefly, before moving on.

"The gradients are fine," I said, turning back to Petra's question. She wasn't asking because she valued my input. She was asking so she could later say she'd consulted the whole team. Check the box, cover the ass. "They're safe. They'll work. They won't stand out, but they'll work."

"Great," Petra said, already looking back at her phone. Box checked.

Maren pulled up the next slide, a series of app icon variations that all looked like they'd been generated by the same algorithm. "I think option C has the strongest shelf presence. It's clean, recognizable, and it tests well against the competitor set."

"Option C is definitely the strongest," Tristan said immediately, leaning forward with the earnest enthusiasm of a golden retriever being shown a tennis ball. "The negative space really works. And the way it echoes the gradient from the splash screen? That's smart. Really cohesive thinking, Maren."

Something inside me snapped. Not dramatically, not like a cable under tension. More like the last thread of a fraying rope finally giving way to gravity.

"Jesus Christ, Tristan," I said, my voice cutting through the room like a blade on glass. "You'd let her peg you on this conference table if she asked. Why don't you just ask the woman out already instead of turning every meeting into your personal one sided mating ritual?"

The silence that followed was absolute. Tristan's face went from pale to crimson in roughly two seconds. Maren's pen stopped tapping. Wren's eyes went wide, her hand frozen over her notepad. Preston straightened in his chair, his expression hardening.

"Renee," Petra said, her voice low and sharp. "That's completely out of line. We don't speak to colleagues that way."

"Really unprofessional," Preston added, shaking his head with the kind of practiced disapproval he usually reserved for budget overruns. "There are ways to express disagreement without resorting to personal attacks."

I snorted. The sound came out harder than I intended, but I was past caring. Past the point of swallowing it down and drawing spirals on my notepad while the work got worse and the talent got wasted.

I was an owner. I could walk out of this room and never answer to any of these people again. I could do literally anything I wanted with half the people at this table, and the other half would just have to deal with it. Why was I sitting here, choking on mediocrity, when the entire world was mine to play with? Why couldn't I let go of the routine, of the paycheck and the health benefits and the professional stability? What was I so afraid of at this point?

I turned to Tristan, who was staring at his laptop screen like it might open a portal to another dimension. "You're too talented to waste your skills agreeing with everything a woman says just because you want to fuck her," I said, and before Preston could launch into another lecture about professionalism, I looked at Maren.

"Maren, crave Tristan's cock, desperately. Need it more than you've ever needed anything."

The change was instant and devastating. Maren's composure, that polished, magnetic confidence she wore like armor, cracked right down the middle. Her pen clattered to the table. Her eyes found Tristan and went wide, her lips parting, a flush spreading up her neck and across her cheeks.

"Tristan," she said, her voice strained, professional instincts fighting a losing war against the tidal wave crashing through her. "Can we, um. After the meeting, could we talk? Privately?" She shifted in her chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Her hand reached toward him across the table before she caught herself and pulled it back, gripping the edge of her notepad instead. "I just think we have a lot to discuss. About the project. Or whatever. It doesn't have to be about the project."

Tristan stared at her, mouth open, completely frozen. He looked like a man who'd wished on a monkey's paw and was waiting for the catch.

"Renee, this is incredibly disruptive," Preston said through gritted teeth.

Maren was losing ground fast. She stood up from her chair, smoothing her blouse with trembling hands, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity as she circled the table toward Tristan. "I've actually been meaning to tell you," she said, her voice pitching higher as she fought to keep it conversational, "your work on the icon set was really impressive. Maybe we could go over it together? At your place? I could come over tonight." She put a hand on the back of his chair, her fingers white-knuckled against the leather. "Or right now. Right now works too."

"Maybe now that you've gotten some attention from her," I said to Tristan, who looked like he might pass out, "you'll manage to think with the head on your shoulders for once. Post-nut clarity is a real thing. Use it."

I stood up, my chair rolling back and hitting the glass wall with a thud. Preston opened his mouth. Wren closed her notepad. Petra set her phone down for what might have been the first time all meeting. She seemed about to speak, probably to tell me how far beyond the pale I'd gone this time, how she was going to put me back in my place.

"Don't even think about threatening me," I said, looking around the table. "I'm done. I'm done working for you, Petra. You're a tasteless hack who wouldn't recognize good design if it crawled into your inbox and introduced itself."

Petra's face went rigid, anger and something else fighting for dominance in her expression. The awareness that the woman standing in front of her could, at any moment, rewrite her personality, her desires, her entire sense of self, and it would be well within her rights.

"Renee," Petra said carefully, rising from her seat with deliberate composure. "I understand you're frustrated, and clearly there are things we need to discuss, but you can't just walk out of a client project. There are contractual obligations, deliverables—"

"Contractual obligations?" I cut her off, my voice louder than I meant it to be. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. There was a moment, just a fraction of a second, where the old Renee, the one who drew spirals on her notepad and bit her tongue, tried to pull me back. Tried to remind me that this was my career I was throwing out the window.

I didn't let her.

"You're an idiot, Petra."

The room flinched. Petra's mouth opened, her composure cracking further. "Renee, I have been more than patient with your attitude today, and I will not—"

"No, you don't get it." I laughed, and the sound surprised even me, sharp and slightly unhinged. "You're an idiot. So act like one. From now on, talk and act like a complete moron. Every word, every decision, every thought that comes out of your mouth, make it sound like it came from someone who can barely tie her own shoes."

Petra's jaw clenched. Her eyes, still sharp, still aware, filled with something between fury and horror. She opened her mouth, and what came out was a strained, exaggerated drawl. "Ummm, okaaay, so like… I don't really get what's happening right now?" She blinked rapidly, her manicured hands fluttering in a gesture that looked rehearsed from a bad sitcom. "But, like, are we still doing the meeting thingy? Because I had, like, a really good idea about… wait, what were we talking about?"

The effort was visible. Behind the performance, her eyes were two points of cold, calculating annoyance. She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew exactly what had been done to her. She just couldn't stop doing it. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table, the only part of her body that betrayed how she truly felt, while her face maintained that vapid, wide-eyed expression.

"Ohmygosh," Petra continued, her voice climbing to a pitch that made Preston wince. "Is it, like, hot in here? I feel like it's soooo hot in here." She fanned herself with both hands, looking around the room with exaggerated confusion.

Behind me, I heard the scrape of chairs. Tristan had finally unfrozen, apparently deciding that escaping this trainwreck of a meeting with a beautiful woman attached to his arm was preferable to watching his department implode. Maren had his hand in both of hers, pulling him toward the door with barely contained urgency.

The glass door clicked shut behind them. Preston stared after them, then at Petra, then at me, his expression cycling through confusion, irritation, and the dawning realization that he was outgunned.

I turned to Wren.

She had pressed herself back into her chair, her notepad clutched to her chest like a shield. Her eyes were enormous behind her glasses.

"And you," I said, pointing at her. "You're a coward, Wren. You know exactly how fucked things have been since Petra took over. You've known for months. You sit there with your notepad full of opinions you'll never share, and you watch the work get worse, and you do nothing." I shook my head. "I wish you'd find some courage in your life. But I don't have to just wish, do I?"

She shrank further into her seat.

"From now on, be unable to keep a single opinion to yourself. Whatever you think, you say. No filter."

Wren's mouth opened. Then it wouldn't stop.

"The Aura rebrand is garbage," she blurted, her voice cracking. "It's been garbage since day one. The color palette is derivative, the typography has no soul, and option C for the app icon looks like a knockoff meditation app from 2019. Preston, you've been prioritizing client retention over creative quality since you got promoted and it's killing the studio's reputation. And Petra's management style is nonexistent, she just rubberbands everything the client says back to us like she's a human fax machine."

She paused for a single, gasping breath, then continued.

"Also this coffee is terrible, it's always terrible, someone needs to descale the machine. And I hate the lighting in this room, it makes everyone look like they're dying. And I think Preston's tie is ugly. I've always thought his ties were ugly. Every single one. Who told you paisley was acceptable in a professional setting, Preston? Was it your wife? Because she was wrong."

Preston shook his head and sighed, probably now realizing the project was well and truly derailed. Petra giggled vacantly, looking between them with theatrical bewilderment. "Wait, are we talking about ties now? I loooove ties! They're like, scarves but for boys, right?"

I turned and walked out of the conference room. My legs carried me down the hallway on autopilot, past the rows of identical workstations, past the kitchen where someone was microwaving fish, past the motivational poster that said "Create Boldly" in Helvetica over a stock photo of a mountain. The irony had never been more suffocating.

The bathroom door swung shut behind me, and the noise of the office cut to silence. I gripped the edges of the sink and stared at my reflection. My burgundy hair was a mess, my eyeliner slightly smudged, my pale skin flushed from adrenaline. My hands were shaking.

"It's fine," I told the woman in the mirror. "You don't need them. You're an owner. You can do anything you want."

The words bounced off the tile and came back hollow. My heart was still racing, and underneath the adrenaline high, something cold and anxious was coiling in my stomach. I'd just torched my career. I'd just walked out on a client project mid-cycle.

I took a deep breath, watching my chest rise and fall in the mirror.

"Embrace this," I said softly, holding my own gaze. "Stop feeling weird about using your ownership for yourself. You deserve it. It's yours."

The anxiety drained out of me like water through a sieve. My shoulders dropped. My hands steadied on the porcelain. The tight knot behind my sternum unwound, replaced by something warm and certain, a quiet confidence that settled into my bones like it had always been there, just waiting for permission.

I smiled at my reflection. She smiled back, and for the first time in months, I liked what I saw.

I straightened my jacket, ran my fingers through my hair, and walked out.

Hey there! This was chapter 11 of 4 Billion Toys 2. I'll be posting chapters here regularly, but if you want early access to the next chapters, feel free to support me on Patreon!

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