Page 1 of Giving Chase

Imposter Syndrome

ELIZA

The steady thrumof my fingernails on the polished mahogany desk fills my office. It's a habit I've never entirely kicked, much like my afternoon espresso or penchant for emotionally unavailable men. I glance at the clock: 2:45 PM. Fifteen minutes until the board meeting, and my mind is anywhere but on the Q4 projections I should be reviewing.

I stand, moving to the floor-to-ceiling windows of my corner office. The Los Angeles skyline stretches out before me, a concrete jungle I've called home for the better part of three decades. At fifty-five, I still cut an impressive figure—tall, with a fuller silhouette that speaks of a life well-lived. My long platinum blonde hair cascades down my back, the ends a vibrant purple that catches the late afternoon sun.

The intercom buzzes, Jenna's voice filling the room. "Ms. Kerr, there's a call for you on line one. It's about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction."

My heart skips a beat. Damn. I'd hoped the email I'd received earlier was some sort of elaborate prank. "Thanks, Jenna. I'll take it."

I pick up the phone, my voice steady despite the sudden dryness in my throat. "Eliza Kerr speaking."

"Ms. Kerr, this is Daniel Greenblatt from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Foundation. I'm calling to formally request your participation in this year's induction ceremony."

I listen as he outlines the details, my mind racing. Incendiary Ink. Hall of Fame. Induction speech. The words swirl in my head, each one carrying the weight of two decades of history, of triumphs and regrets, of stolen kisses and broken promises.

"Ms. Kerr? Are you still there?"

I realize I've been silent for too long. "Yes, Mr. Greenblatt. I'm here. It's just... unexpected news."

"I understand. The band was quite insistent that you be the one to induct them. Particularly Mr. Avery."

Mr. Avery - Chase. The name alone sends a jolt through my system, awakening feelings I'd thought long buried. I see him in my mind's eye: tousled dark hair, green eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles, that damn dimple in his left cheek that always made my knees weak. Twenty years ago, he was the twenty-five-year-old rocker who turned my world upside down. Now, at forty-five, he's... what? A man I once knew? A mistake I can't seem to stop making?

"Ms. Kerr?"

I snap back to the present. "Thank you for the call, Mr. Greenblatt. I'll need some time to consider this request. As I'm sure you know, it's not typically done this way."

"Of course. Please let us know your decision by the end of the week."

I hang up, my mind reeling. My imposter syndrome starts to creep in, telling me I don’t deserve any of this. Despite the countless sacrifices I’ve made, especially personally, it feels like I’ve faked my entire rise into this position. Deep down, I know I’ve earned it, but that little nagging voice in the back of my headnever truly goes away. And the mention of Chase just makes everything worse.

The intercom buzzes again. "Ms. Kerr, the board is ready for you in the conference room."

"Thanks, Jenna. I'll be right there." My voice is low, with a hint of gravel that comes from years of long nights and heated negotiations. And maybe a few too many cigarettes shared with a particular lead singer under starlit skies.

I smooth down my tailored black blazer and straighten my shoulders. Eliza Kerr never shrinks, not for anyone or anything. With one last glance in the mirror—perfect makeup, not a hair out of place—I stride out of my office, the heels of my boots clicking a staccato rhythm as I walk.

The conference room falls silent as I enter. Ten pairs of eyes turn to me, a mix of curiosity and anticipation evident in their gazes.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I nod, taking my seat at the head of the table. "Let's get started with our quarterly review."

For the next hour and a half, we dive into financial reports, marketing strategies, and projections for the upcoming quarter. I force myself to focus, pushing thoughts of Chase and Incendiary Ink to the back of my mind. But as Richard wraps up his financial summary, I know I can't put it off any longer.

"Before we adjourn," I say, my voice cutting through the rustling of papers, "there's one more matter we need to discuss."

The room grows quiet, all eyes on me once again.

"I received a call just before this meeting. Incendiary Ink is being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame." I pause, letting the information sink in. "And apparently, they want me to give the induction speech."

The room erupts in excited chatter. Incendiary Ink had been one of Blackmore Records' most significant success stories, and their induction is a feather in the company's cap.

"That's fantastic news, Eliza!" exclaims Tom, already no doubt planning PR strategies in his head. He’s been filling in for our VP of Public Relations, Tess, who is currently on maternity leave. "Think of the publicity?—"

I hold up a hand, silencing him. "It's not that simple, Tom. The induction speech is typically given by a musical peer, or an actor or celebrity of some kind, not a label exec."

"But you're not just any label exec," interjects Bess, her curly red hair bouncing as she leans forward enthusiastically. "You discovered them, nurtured them. Hell, you practically midwifed their career. And so many others, too. You’re a legend in your own right."

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