I woke up to the incessant buzzing of my phone on the bedside table. Groaning, I reached out and answered the call.
"Get up. You have to get ready; it's Media Day!" a husky voice demanded through the line.
"I need some sleep," I mumbled, my voice croaking with exhaustion. I finished the sentence with a yawn.
"As your PR manager, I'm telling you to get up and get moving. I pulled a lot of strings to get you a spot at this press conference," he replied, his tone stern and unyielding.
"Scientists don't have PR managers. What are they going to ask me anyway? I'm no celebrity. I'm scandal-free," I grumbled, eyes still closed.
"I'm your self-appointed PR manager, and you're right. The media doesn't usually care about scientists. But this press conference is your chance to show the world why your work matters," he insisted, emphasizing the importance. That got me awake, but as soon as I opened my eyes, everything seemed too bright. I shut them again as a throbbing pain radiated from my temples to the back of my head.
This hangover will be the death of me.
"Alright. Can I just sleep for ten more minutes?" I muttered, shifting on my bed and burying my face in the pillow, still holding the phone to my ear. For a moment, the darkness eased the pain, but it quickly returned.
"Sophie Esinberg, as your best friend, I'm warning you to get up and get dressed! I worked my ass off to get you this spot. All the celebrity nominees will be there. It's a huge deal," he said, his frustration clear.
He used my full name, which meant I had pissed him off.
"Yes, yes. I'm up. I'll get ready soon," I replied, finally mustering the courage to rise from the hotel bed. I walked to the window, where the curtains were wide open, letting the sunlight flood the room. I balanced the phone between my ear and shoulder as I used both hands to close the heavy maroon velvet curtains.
"I'm running a bit late, so I'll be there in about an hour. I'll meet you in the backstage room," he said, sounding rushed.
"Okay, and also-" He cut me off.
"I've got to go. Sorry. Bye, Soaf. See you soon," he said, hanging up before I could respond.
Daniel was right. Despite my limited experience with the media, I could use Media Day to my advantage. If I could convince people that my project's cause was worthwhile, I might attract investors for my research and bolster my waning labouratory.
I had no idea how I was going to do it, though. The only places I'd ever presented my work were scientific conferences. Facing the media was a whole new challenge.
I stepped into the shower, the hot water cascading over me, a soothing contrast to the pounding headache from last night's excess champagne. As I closed my eyes, trying to wash away the blur of laughter and clinking glasses, his face invaded my thoughts with startling clarity. His ocean-blue gaze, penetrating and deep, seemed to pierce through the layers of my soul. His tousled dark blonde hair framing a smile that could disarm even the most guarded heart. The dimple on his right cheek, the curve of his lips. His jawline was sharp, every feature etched with a familiarity that both comforted and pained me.
With a gasp, I snapped my eyes open, a tightness gripping my chest as memories flooded in. Seventeen-year-old me, standing alone in my room at midnight, tears staining my cheeks as I stared out the window, hoping for solace that never came.
I rubbed my arms, the steam suddenly suffocating as I struggled to catch my breath- the weight of betrayal, the discovery that our love was nothing more than a cruel bet, spun my world into a dizzying whirlwind of humiliation. The weight of seven-year-old pain resurfacing like a tidal wave crashing over me- the echoes of laughter in the school hallways, the mocking whispers that cut deeper than any knife.
Turning off the shower, I wrapped myself in a towel, the hotel room now feeling colder, more cavernous. I drew slow, steadying breaths, my gaze flickering to the mirror that reflected a face still haunted by old wounds.
"It's over. You're okay," I murmured, trying to soothe the storm raging within. Inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, I repeated the calming ritual until my racing heart slowed its frantic beat.
My attention shifted to the sheet of paper lying on the armoire, scrawled with hastily scribbled notes and strategies for the upcoming press conference. Daniel had warned me about the polished strategies celebrities used in these situations, contrasting sharply with my own unpreparedness. My notes were a chaotic jumble, barely legible and uncertain against the backdrop of polished professionalism.
Taking another deep breath, I steeled myself for the day ahead. I knew that facing the media would require more than just research-it would demand a strength I wasn't sure I possessed.
***
I stepped into the bustling foyer of the grand hotel, the air thick with anticipation and the murmur of voices echoing off the high, ornately decorated ceilings. The marble floor beneath my feet gleamed under the soft lighting, each step I took resonating with the polished surface. Elegant paintings adorned the walls, each one a masterpiece that added to the grandeur of the space, I noticed as I navigated through the throng of people.
Media Day was in full swing, and I could feel the weight of every eye on me as I smoothed down my dress nervously, trying to gather my composure. I wore a tight-fitting black dress that reached a few inches below my knees, with a daring slit that climbed to mid-thigh, offering both allure and the freedom to walk and sit with ease. Gold-polished earrings framed my face, and black velvet pumps completed the ensemble. The atmosphere was electric, reporters buzzing around with notepads and cameras, their eyes sharp and searching for the next big story. Microphones and flashing lights created a dizzying spectacle that only heightened my anxiety.
Daniel's voice cut through the chaos. His tall frame, standing at five-ten, easily findable amid the hurried crowd around him. His black hair was neatly styled, and his boyish smile brought a fleeting sense of comfort. His sharp jawline and lean, muscular build were accentuated by a well-tailored dark-grey suit that spoke of quiet confidence and professionalism.
"Sophie!" Daniel's voice rang out, drawing my attention. His grey eyes, filled with a hint of concern, met mine as he approached. "There you are."
"Hi Danny!" I said as I saw him approaching me amongst the bustling crowd in the foyer. "Hello, Soaf." he said as his arms wrapped around me taking me into a comfortable embrace.
"Don't panic but-", he said as he momentarily closed his eyes and sighed before he continued," Raymond is in this press conference"
"Oh, that's...alright, I guess.", I said as I forced a reassuring smile on my lips, which felt more like a grimace.
"I am so sorry, Soaf. They only took eight out of fifty-two nominees for this press conference and it is supposed to be only the big celebrities, I didn't know Raymond would be here.", Daniel's words coated with a glint of panic.
"Don't worry, Danny. I will be fine", I managed a shaky nod, my gaze briefly flickering to hall across the foyer before returning to Daniel.
Daniel nodded, a reassuring smile crossing his lips. "You've got this," he encouraged, his voice firm but supportive. "Remember, stick to the points we discussed. Show them why your work matters."
The press conference room exuded an aura of anticipation, its walls adorned with the subdued elegance of muted colours and modern art. In the center, a polished wooden stage elevated the eight nominees, each seated in plush, high-backed chairs. Soft spotlights above highlighted their poised figures, casting gentle shadows against the neutral backdrop.
Opposite them, rows of folding chairs accommodated the assembled media reporters and cameramen. Their equipment stood ready, lenses poised like attentive eyes, capturing every moment. The air hummed with whispered exchanges and the occasional click of a camera shutter, punctuating the expectant silence that enveloped the room.
I walked toward the elevated stage, my heart pounding in rhythm with each step. I took my seat, the placard with my name staring back at me, a stark reminder of the spotlight I had reluctantly stepped into. To my left, a blonde girl in a beautiful lilac dress sat elegantly, using her phone as a mirror to fix her lipstick. The placard in front of her read "Bethany Parker." She seemed utterly composed, every movement deliberate and poised.
On my right, a short Asian man sat with perfect posture, his well-tailored Armani suit paired with an expensive Oracle watch. His practiced, tight-lipped smile never wavered. I leaned forward slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of the rest of the nominees seated further down the stage. Two women occupied the end seats, and right in the middle of them was Raymond. He was engrossed in a conversation with the woman to his left, his demeanour relaxed and charming. When his gaze briefly landed on me, a flicker of something like recognition crossed his face before he turned back to his conversation.
I scanned the room, noting how each nominee seemed to emanate composure and confidence, as if being scrutinized by the international media was second nature to them. The weight of their presence, of their ease, pressed down on me. I felt like an outsider, my nerves raw and exposed. Taking a deep breath, I straightened my back against the high-backed chair, forcing myself to adopt a posture of confidence.
In front of the stage, a sea of reporters and camera flashes created a wall of scrutiny. Each sound amplified my anxiety, making the air around me feel thick and suffocating. I focused on the polished marble floor beneath, the intricate patterns a temporary distraction from the intensity of the moment.
"Thank you, everyone, for joining us today," a man announced, holding the mic as he walked in front of the stage facing the media. "We will be starting the conference now," he stated, then approached the reporters with a stack of papers and began distributing them.
As the press conference began, questions flew at everyone but me from all directions. Most were directed at Bethany Parker, a 23-year-old photographer, Carlos Martinez, a 29-year-old businessman recently named in Forbe's 30 Under 30, and Raymond, the famously adored football team captain of the United States.
As more and more questions were directed toward the other nominees and the conference neared its end, I felt my only chance at saving my project slipping from my hands. Anxiousness took over, and I started tapping my foot lightly, watching as the other nominees answered even the most tactical questions with grace and calmness.
I grabbed the water bottle placed in front of me and took a long gulp, hoping to steady my nerves. The crumpled piece of paper on my lap caught my eye. I unfolded it, sSoafming through the bullet points I had scribbled for this conference. This was my moment. I summoned every ounce of strength I had. I was here for a reason, and I would not let anything ruin my cause.
"My next question is for Sophie," a reporter called out, bringing me back to the task at hand. Finally, I had a chance, that is, if I played my cards right.
I cleared my throat, steeling myself. "Yes, please," I replied, trying to regain my focus.
"How do you feel being nominated for this award? I must say at such a young age, you have done well as a scientist," she asked. I tried to spot the reporter amongst the sea of faces.
"If I am being honest, I feel deeply honoured to be nominated for this prestigious award," I said, a smile curling my lips. "But I believe it speaks more for the cause I am working on than for myself." I placed the mic back on my lap, hoping this would lead to a chance to speak about my work. If I played it right, I could highlight my project; otherwise, Daniel's hard work would be in vain.
"Can you tell us some more about this cause?" the reporter asked, following up just as I had anticipated.
Bridging. It's a PR strategy that uses the deflection of a topic into the interviewee's favour. It allows the interviewee to steer the conversation from a potentially negative or uncomfortable topic to a more favourable one. I just had to use it to shift the focus from me to my work.
"Absolutely," I began, leaning forward slightly. "My project focuses on developing sustainable solutions for water purification in underdeveloped regions. Access to clean water is a fundamental human right, yet millions of people lack it. My team and I have been working tirelessly on a filtration system that uses natural, renewable resources to provide safe drinking water. It's not just about scientific achievement; it's about improving lives and giving communities the tools they need to thrive."
I glanced around, noticing the attentive faces of the reporters. Their interest was piqued, and I could see the respect in their eyes. This was my chance to truly make an impact, if the media could print even one article about my work it could do wonders for my project.
"Our latest prototype has shown incredible promise in field tests," I continued. "We're using a combination of advanced nanotechnology and traditional filtration methods to create a system that's both effective and affordable. With the right support, we believe this technology could be implemented on a large scale, bringing clean water to those who need it most."
The reporter nodded, clearly impressed. "That's remarkable, Sophie. Can you share any specific examples of where this technology has been tested?"
"Of course," I said, my confidence growing. "We've conducted trials in several villages in Sub-Saharan Africa, where the need for clean water is dire. The results have been overwhelmingly positive, with significant reductions in waterborne diseases and improvements in overall health. I believe it's proof that if we can scale this technology, we can make a tangible difference."
I felt a sense of triumph as I finished speaking. This was why I was here, to shed light on the importance of my work, to inspire others to support the cause, and to save my project.
