Yes, yet another morning to enjoy without waking up early and rushing out before the sun. With Ms. Fallon scheduled to shadow him from morning until late afternoon, I finally had the freedom to squeeze in some Zoom interviews. Every single one looked promising. All I had to do was wait for those final offer letters to land in my inbox, and I could take my golden pick. Two were secretary positions at law firms—far removed from the fashion circus. But the one I secretly hoped for was at Style Sphere. Same pay, fewer headaches. Sure, his brother runs it, which could make things awkward, but as long as Style Sphere confirms there'd be no drama, I'd happily jump ship.
The dinner party wasn't the kind of formal, overplanned soirée the company usually threw—it was more of a casual get-together. Cherry had picked a bar in West Hollywood, and we were all relieved that we could wear something relaxed (though, being designers, "casual" still meant curated).
Between shots and shared horror stories of working under Fabrizi, the room filled with constant laughter—until Liam, slurring, swaying, and pointing, blurted out:
"Hey, Cherry! How's it feel not being the only redhead now? How are we supposed to tell you two apart?"
His finger wobbled between Ms. Fallon and Cherry. Cherry, of course, didn't take it lightly. She shot Ms. Fallon a daggered look, then sniffed:
"I'm the only redhead designer. That's all that matters."
Her attitude was largely ignored by our drunk colleagues, but I caught it. Poor Cherry. Always fishing for validation. I knew why. She once confided in me that, when she first started, Mr. Fabrizi literally tore up her designs in front of her. She survived by playing the part: prideful, untouchable, superior to everyone else. I understood—it was the only way some of us lasted this long. Because here's the truth: Fabrizi isn't cruel. He just wasn't born with human emotions. He's a machine—cold logic, no empathy, zero social awareness. How else do you explain questions like: Why did that deal go wrong when I stated a pure fact? or Why did they make those faces at me?
Our laughter died instantly when a glass shattered. I muttered something about it being a bad omen. Sure enough, Robert cut his hand while picking up the pieces. And right on cue, the real bad omen appeared—the tall, sour-faced orange tan of a figure at the entrance.
The table sobered fast, as if we were underage drinkers caught by a parent. He scanned each of us like the police before he boomed:
"Thanks to Ms. Fallon—the only one who answered my email—I was able to get the address for this . . . gathering. I hope you're enjoying yourself, Ms. Fallon. Welcome to the team."
He dropped into the seat beside Richard and Liam, who both looked like they were plotting escape routes. I panicked, reaching for my phone—shocked to find it was off. Another bad omen. My phone is never off.
We picked at our food in silence. Forced conversation trickled in, punctuated by awkward laughs, until the inevitable happened: everyone started complimenting him. He basked in it, oblivious to how stiff and miserable we all were. Everyone praised him—except me. And of course, he noticed.
"Marcie," he said steadily. "Do you have anything to add? Any perspective your soon-to-be ex-colleagues seem to share?"
A sharp laugh escaped as I clicked my tongue. I turned toward him, smiling brightly.
"I'd like to compliment myself—for hanging in there and not giving up. Ten years of opportunities I never dreamed of in Los Angeles. And now, it's my time to put the burden down and live my life. Thank you, everyone, for being part of my journey at Sera Elganza. I will truly miss you."
He was so busy trying to find the hidden compliments about him in my speech that I slipped him a melatonin gummy without issue.
"Mr. Fabrizi," I said sweetly, pressing a smile, "I think it's time to head home. I'm worried about your energy levels after the gummy."
Truthfully? I didn't care about his energy levels. I just wanted him gone so the celebration could breathe again. And it almost worked. He asked when the bar closed and grumbled that 2 a.m. was too late for him. But then Ms. Fallon—of all people—suggested we move the party to another bar. And, of course, Mr. Fabrizi immediately invited himself along. Sadly.