He picked up the letter. Sliding his glasses onto the bridge of his nose, he scanned the contents as though this were the first time he'd ever laid eyes on it. I could see the faint sweat gathering at his temples, betraying him. "Miss Williams," he began. "I… uh… I'm sorry. It's the way it has to be."
My arms loosened and fell to my sides. "You're letting me go?" The thought of being unemployed after all my late nights, all the bloodshot mornings, all the times I bailed the department out of disaster.
"Well, it's not personal," he stammered, eyes still glued to the letter as though he could find salvation written between the lines. "You are a hard worker and good at what you do. Truly. But…" His hands fidgeted with his pen, flipping it between his fingers. "We are undergoing some budget cuts and, as much as I would like to keep you on the list of retained staff, we just can't afford someone with your qualifications anymore." He swallowed hard, still refusing to look me in the eye, as though meeting my gaze might set him on fire.
My chest burned. Budget cuts? Really? Of all the paper-thin excuses, this was the one he reached for? My rational brain screamed at me to keep calm, to be professional, but my mouth had other plans. Sarcasm practically leapt off my tongue. "Budget cuts?" I repeated. "Is someone messing with me? Because if this is a prank, congratulations—you got me. You actually got me. You gave the receptionist a raise last week, Mr. Hargrove. A raise. For answering phones and ordering printer ink! I saw the paperwork myself! So, what is this really about? Because math was never your weak point, and don't think for a second I'll buy that you suddenly can't afford me."
"I-I'm sorry, Miss Williams. Truly." This time his eyes met mine, and I knew. He meant it. The apology was soft around the edges, almost regretful. But it didn't matter. His hands were tied and I could practically smell the strings being pulled from elsewhere. Someone else was about to feel my wrath. Someone taller. Annoyingly handsome. Someone who thought he could just waltz into my life and bulldoze.
That overgrown idiot. Junior had sabotaged my job. My job! Who did that? Who tore down someone's livelihood? Apparently, a spoiled man-child with too much money and too little sense of boundaries.
"Fine," I spat, gathering the last crumbs of my dignity. I walked out of Mr. Hargrove's office. Back at my desk, I shoved my purse over my shoulder and stormed out of the building.
I took a deep breath and crossed the street to the mobile café parked conveniently in front of the glass building I had just been exiled from. The barista gave me a smile. "The usual?" he asked. I nodded, not trusting my voice.
The paper cup was warm in my hand, the bitter steam curling against my nose. God, I needed the caffeine before I set someone on fire. I fished out my phone, my thumb hovering over the contact list. Only one person came to mind. The woman who lived for drama. Mama Numero.
I pressed call.
"Darling!" Her voice burst through the line. "What a lovely surprise!"
I closed my eyes, inhaling her warmth, and suddenly felt a pang of guilt for what I was about to do. "Hi, Mrs. Numero. I was just thinking…" My words trailed, hesitation thick on my tongue. Did I really want to go down this path? Did I really want to spin a web of lies just to corner her son? My better self whispered no. But then I glanced at the reflective glass of my old office building. My better self shut up real quick.
"Maybe Junior and I need to spend more time together," I said finally, coating my voice in a sweetness I didn't feel.
"That is a splendid idea, Darling! I am so glad you are handling this elegantly!"
"Uh-huh," I murmured, trying to sound poised, though guilt laced every syllable.
"Could you tell me where his office is?" I asked, forcing a casual note into my voice. I hated myself for how easily the words slipped out.
"Of course, darling!" she sang. I could practically hear her clapping her hands in delight. She rattled off the address. Then she went on, offering me "a few tips to be even more appealing." Her exact words were: "Men are weak for women in red, darling. And remember to smile like you have a secret. A woman with a secret is irresistible."
I hung up before she could offer to personally give me a makeover, or call her stylist again.
*****
Walking into Junior's office building, I realized two things in rapid succession. One: the Numeros weren't just millionaires. They weren't even just multi-millionaires. No, no. These people swam in money the way dolphins swam in open oceans. Billions. With a B. The floors gleamed so brightly they probably had their own lighting crew. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and…power. Two: for people so obscenely rich, they had absolutely atrocious customer service.
The receptionist spotted me the moment I entered. Her eyes narrowed. She had sharp eyebrows, sharp nails, and an attitude sharp enough to slice me in half. Her makeup looked like it had been layered like geological sediment.
"Can I help you?" she asked in a voice that dripped disdain, as though the idea of helping me personally offended her religion.
"Yes," I replied smoothly, plastering on my best professional smile. "I'm here to see Mr. Numero."
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, every syllable coated in skepticism. The way she eyed me made me feel like gum stuck to the underside of her designer desk.
"Oh, I don't need one." I leaned in slightly. "I'm his fiancée. Just pick up the phone and tell him Nita is here," I said sweetly, sugar so thick it could rot teeth.
She let her gaze travel down my outfit. Her unimpressed stare could have curdled milk. For a second, I thought she might burst out laughing.