The Lost Hours
The conference room smelled of dry-erase markers and the particular staleness of recycled air that had been cycling through the building's vents since Monday. Elena stood at the head of the long table, clicker in hand, the slide behind her glowing with the Harrowgate Textiles logo she'd redesigned seventeen times before anyone on the fourth floor agreed it looked "clean enough to sell."
"So what we're proposing," she said, and her voice came out steadier than she felt, "is a complete repositioning. Not just visually, but emotionally. Harrowgate isn't selling fabric. You're selling permanence. Heritage. The idea that something made well will outlast the person who bought it."
Six faces watched her from around the table. Two executives from Harrowgate, their account manager, and three people from her own agency, including Diane, her boss, whose arms were crossed in the particular way that meant she was either impressed or calculating how much this pitch had cost the firm in billable hours.
Elena clicked to the next slide. A woman in a tailored coat, caught mid-stride on a cobblestone street, the Harrowgate label stitched discreetly into the collar.
"The campaign leans into…