I have absolutely no comment on last night. None whatsoever. I'm not even entertaining the idea of sharing the delusional drama with Summer, who lives for that kind of thing. My Instagram is about to be wiped clean; the account is scheduled for deletion. Photos I've taken over the years in L.A. have already been printed out or stored on a hard drive. No more hashtags tying my name to my soon-to-be ex-boss. I just need Ms. Fallon to finish her required training days with me or Mr. Fabrizi, and then I'm gone.
I don't know why I told him last night about the possibility of me moving. It was nothing more than a fleeting thought—a three-second slip. Honestly, I don't want him knowing where I am once I'm gone.
This morning the sun spilled through my white curtains like heaven itself. At last—a morning off. I usually wake before dawn, but today I lingered, letting its warmth fill the room. First things first: feed myself. I haven't done that in a while.
Should I keep it light with fruit—or spoil myself with a full Waffle House plate?
Thinking about Waffle House reminded me of the South. There's nothing like that in California. It would be nice to move back to Georgia. Maybe even Atlanta. It would suit me better. And yet—here, I actually feel at home. For the first time, I stood in my room and took time to appreciate the space I'd decorated.
The day was relaxing, yes—but by the time the sun began to set, I knew I had to head back to work.
It should have been simple. Just training. And I was certain Ms. Fallon had studied that cursed handbook cover to cover.
But I suppose I was already a bit stressed by the time I parked. Not outside his house this time, but scrambling for overpriced public parking on Rodeo. The air between us has been strange, and I didn't feel comfortable leaving my car in my usual spot. The way he looked at me made my heart slightly beat. I didn't even know it was possible until last night—and it was unnerving. I can't be hiding feelings—it doesn't make sense when it comes to him.
If it weren't for his stupid arrogance and relentless pride and ego, he would look rather... decent. Let me set the records straight—he's not my type. But I give compliments where they're due. He has his mother's sweet face, and then he ruins it with his robotic tendencies and an attitude towards people as cold as steel. It's like Robert, the salesman. Attractive man, not my type. We gave it a shot on one date, but the feelings never gathered. It's the same with Mr. Fabrizi. Such a shame he has to be so... him. Wouldn't it be nice to work with someone handsome who didn't schedule obsessive tanning sessions every Sunday at precisely noon? Well. Now that that's out of the bag, my brain can finally focus on work.
To my surprise, Ms. Fallon was already in his office when I arrived—early, I might add. I noticed right away that his coffee order was wrong. Otherwise, she seemed fine, though Mr. Fabrizi himself looked completely out of it. No tie—unusual. Wrinkled suit—very unusual. Stressed and half-asleep—somewhat normal. But when his eyes met mine as I stepped near the sitting area towards the front of his office, he looked... excited?
I must have imagined it. This man is practically a robot at work.
"I'm glad you could join us," he said, as if I were late. "Ms. Fallon has been training all day. She took on the challenge to help me since the obvious slept in."
I ignored the sudden jab.
"Shall we begin? I have a list of questions. Mr. Fabrizi, feel free to add your own," I said, motioning for them to sit.
"We've known each other long enough, Marcie. Ennio will do. Once you hit your tenth year, you can call me by my first name too." He threw a glance at Ms. Fallon.
He cannot be serious. I am never calling him by his first name. And why is he suddenly so relaxed?
One look at Fallon, and I had my answer. Drop-dead gorgeous—the talk of the office since she arrived. Maybe she really is what this fashion house needs. Still, that didn't explain the strange things he'd said to me last night.
Fallon breezed through the first set of questions—sweet and bubbly but still professional with her cute British accent. A little shaky on the morning routine, but nerves are normal, especially around him. I was proud, watching her ease into it. Before I knew it, break time had arrived.
While Ms. Fallon excused herself to the bathrooms down the hall, I began setting out refreshments. Things were looking up. Mr. Fabrizi lounged in his chair, chewing on mints. But minutes passed, and Fallon still hadn't returned. It was quiet—eerily quiet after hours. Then I caught it: muffled sniffles from the women's bathroom. Déjà vu. That had been me once. I cracked the door, and she startled.
"Ms. Fallon, are you okay? You did great during the run-through."
"I know. I—messed up this morning."
"This morning? You worked at 4:30?"
"He said I could earn extra points if I performed everything flawlessly. I thought I could do it, but he's so... demanding. So particular about his things."
Her voice trembled. She looked ready to break. I took a deep inhale.
"You're doing fine. Follow my lead. You'll be another me in no time. There's no rush. Just—breathe."
I left her to collect herself and walked professionally back though frustration was boiling under my skin. I caught his tall figure in the breakroom. And there he was. Sipping from my tea cup. Of all people—him. Mr. Meticulous himself, pretending he didn't know whose cup that was.
"Mr. Fabrizi—"
"Listen," he interrupted smoothly. "We can be casual at least during after hours. I told you—you can call me Ennio."
"And I am not! Be nice to my replacement. You will not treat her the way you treated me. Or you'll end up without a secretary. I can walk out without training her fully—my two weeks are almost up."
He set the cup down slowly, pivoting toward me.
"I think we should talk about the personal things on your mind in a more... private setting."
What the hell is he talking about—personal things?
"There's nothing personal to talk about. This is work."