The icing on the cake is his demeanor—his attitude toward every pretty woman who greets Mr. Fabrizi. My decision is final about leaving. Ms. Fallon just got off the phone with me and is ready to start. The paperwork is already on my desk, and she even has the inherited—cursed—rulebook that was handed down to me ten years ago.
He treats women like candy wrappers: talks to them, then tosses them aside once he's done with his speech about how he's the only competent one to do business with. Business plans are the only thing he gives his full attention to when it comes to people in general. Unfortunately for me, I'm the only female he pays direct attention to—or is allowed to sit beside him—meaning the rumors have naturally spread that he and I are a couple. Rest assured, I squashed those rumors like a bug, though some people stubbornly insist there's chemistry where there is none.
What embarrasses me most is the hashtag on social media that keeps resurfaces that my friend Summer refuses to kill for me on the East Coast; #fabriziandmarcie. She visited two years ago and saw firsthand how he acts from afar, but she still can't see past his supposed charming face. He might be the world's definition of handsome, but he's not mine. I guess I'm strange or simply sane. I just want a regular guy—a little taller than me, not too tall (Mr. Fabrizi loves that he's tall), maybe with a bit of a belly, and definitely not so vain. I can look past the "prince charming" description the magazines give him. In my eyes, he looks like a Ken doll gone wrong in the hands of a raging toddler: too much orange tan to match his orangey-yellow hair. I'm convinced he spray-paints those so-called abs he brags about. No one will ever disprove it, since he never lets a single woman in. But forget Mr. Fabrizi. I'm here to enjoy what may be the last elegant business party I attend for a while.
Of course, I know he hates polka dots and despises color, but I love them—and tonight, I wanted to show up as myself for once. For the first time in a long time, I wasn't paying close attention to Mr. Fabrizi's needs. His ghostlike presence beside me gave me peace. Minutes later, my phone buzzed: business call.
I switched fluently into Italian with the dealer on the other end, then handed the phone to Mr. Fabrizi while I tuned him out again. Focused on the music being performed in the ballroom, I failed to notice him tapping my shoulder.
"Is the music so distracting that you can't pay attention to me? Or is it the phone call from earlier?"
I blushed through a smile, though what I really wanted was to punch his sharp little nose. For a millisecond my thoughts wandered—wondering if other parts of him were just as small, which might explain his need for arrogance.
"Sorry, Mr. Fabrizi. I won't do it again."
A few awkward minutes later, he surprised me by muttering under his breath:
"Your Italian has surprisingly improved—considering your background."
Of course. Backhanded compliments are the only kind he gives.
"Thank you. It's only because of the number of times you teased me about my accent," I replied, keeping my tone even.
He turned toward me.
"When have I teased you?"
The discipline it took not to laugh in his face deserves an award. He hadn't just teased me; he'd downright humiliated me in my first two years working under him, all thanks to his impossible schedule.
I didn't respond. Thankfully, a toast began, giving me the perfect excuse to stand and create some distance between us and that suffocating couch. In a perfect world, some gorgeous goddess would capture his attention, leaving me free to do my job at a distance. But that hope died three years ago. My exit plan had to be drafted.
When the event finally ended and I was no longer needed, I offered warm goodbyes to the fashionably draped guests and a formal one to my not-so-fashionable boss. The walk in heels to my Mini Cooper—a block away—was painful enough. But what surprised me was the presence of someone behind me.
"Ms. Marcie, congratulations on the deal with Mr. Mancini over the phone. Have the proposal on my desk as soon as you can."
Exhausted from speaking and even more from looking at him, I simply smiled and prepared to slip into my car. But he just stood there, as though he had something else to say. I turned the engine on and rolled down the opposite window, forcing a painful smile.
"Is there anything else you need, Mr. Fabrizi?"
"Yes, actually," he said, stepping a little too close to my window. "This is a big deal we were able to make and—"
He meant I when he said we, but whatever.
"Yes, Mr. Fabrizi. We've worked hard for it."
My foot was ready to hit the gas, prepared to flee.
"And I want to grant you a request—anything you like."
That stopped me. I shifted the car into park.
Anything, I thought.
"I'm fully capable of providing whatever your mind wishes—within my guidelines."
This fool. He really thinks every woman just wants chocolates and expensive gifts. Not me. And he had just handed me the perfect opportunity to escape him on his terms.
"Okay . . ." I breathed out before dropping the bomb. "I want to leave the company. I'll provide a secretary who can fully replace me with no trouble at all. Thank you for the opportunity at Sera Elganza—and for being the best boss."
I left him in the dust, utterly dumbfounded. My heart pounded so fast with excitement that I sped down West Hollywood, cops be damned.
I'd dreamt of saying those words forever.
And now, at last—I was free.