2

At nine the next morning, Brent cornered me by the break-room refrigerator.

“Sleep well?”

“Fine.”

“You’re hosting again tonight.”

He called my approach “anti-sales selling,” as if he had not nearly cut the feed himself. Mia Quinn from customer service appeared in the doorway and showed me a clip Theo Nash had edited.

The title read: A HOST TELLS ME NOT TO BUY IT WHILE HER BOSS FALLS APART.

The clip ended with my line about cookware not being collectibles and Brent stopping dead behind me. It had tens of thousands of comments. Studio Three had gained eighty thousand followers overnight.

Theo pretended to study the ceiling when I approached his desk.

“I didn’t mean anything bad by it,” he said. “Look at the followers.”

“What are they asking for?”

“Tonight’s disaster.”

The disaster was a wall of insulated tumblers. The product page promised twenty-four-hour temperature retention. The sample kept water warm, but the silicone ring in the lid smelled like a new raincoat sealed in plastic.

Brent told me not to mention it. When I stared at him, he amended that to, “Mention it gently.”

Two thousand viewers arrived the moment we went live.

[Pan Lady is back.]

[What are you stopping me from buying tonight?]

I held up the tumbler. “Insulation is good. Capacity is generous. The new lid smells strong, so wash it thoroughly and leave it open to air. If smells bother you, skip it.”

The supplier’s representative went pale. Brent covered his face.

I showed the material report, tested the seal upside down, and explained that coffee would linger in the silicone. Then I checked the price. Our bundle was two for twenty-nine dollars. Another site sold one for twenty-four.

“Wait before you order,” I said. “If you need one, the other listing is cheaper. If you need two, ours is the better deal.”

Brent leaned against the wall for support.

Three minutes later, our first batch sold out.

I reminded viewers to check whether they already owned tumblers. One woman said her mother wanted the large one.

“If she rarely leaves home, it may be heavier than she needs.”

[My mom says she doesn’t care.]

“Then your mom wins.”

We sold almost all three thousand. Better yet, the customer-service queue stayed calm.

The most common message was: The host warned me about the smell. I can live with it.

“Complaints are down by half,” Mia said, staring at the screen as if it had performed a miracle.

The supplier returned after the stream. “We’ll send the lid issue to the factory. Also…” He looked at me. “Could you criticize us like this next time?”

By the third stream, Brent believed he had discovered an industry.

The product was a microcurrent facial device advertised as a seven-day shortcut to a younger face. The commission was high. The warning booklet was thick. The script did not mention a single contraindication.

“Can people with damaged skin use it?” I asked. “Pregnant customers? People who recently had cosmetic procedures?”

The brand representative smiled. “Ms. Reed, customer service can answer those questions later. During the stream, focus on the benefits.”

“Later means after they buy it?”

Her smile stiffened.

Brent kicked under the table and hit the chair leg instead of me.

“Just use the script,” he said through the pain. “The platform is giving us organic traffic tonight.”

I closed it. “I’m not reading this.”

“You’re a host now.”

“I was customer service first. That’s why I know who deals with the consequences.”

The brand threatened to replace me, but the preview comments were already demanding Pan Lady. At eight, thirty thousand people arrived.

“This is not a magic wand,” I said. “It will not give you a new face in seven days. It may support a skincare routine. You need conductive gel. You may feel a mild current. If your skin barrier is damaged, you have open wounds, or you recently had a procedure, do not buy it without professional guidance.”

I tried it on my jaw. My cheek jumped.

The chat laughed for a full minute.

I described the sensation, showed the settings, and refused to promise lifting results we could not prove. The brand representative warned from off camera that I was hurting conversion. I told her exaggerated claims would hurt after-sales.

Brent reached for my microphone. Viewers threatened to report the channel if he silenced me.

Our audience passed one hundred thousand. We sold fewer units than the brand had projected, but the buyers were unusually well matched. Several people said I had talked them out of buying it for themselves and into buying it for a relative who would actually use it.

The platform sent Brent a message: Do not end the stream. We are boosting you at nine-thirty.

I stared at the screen.

I could not even get fired correctly.