When I arrive at work, I remind myself to stay professional, to mention nothing of yesterday's unraveling events. Everyone else seems to agree. Still, nervous glances trail Mr. Fabrizi as he strides the hall. His silence—while not unusual—feels deliberate.
I mark it as strange when he passes my desk without a word, heading straight into his office.
Maybe he's just tired.
Still, habit wins. I decided to bring him a coffee. Before I can set it down, he tells me to stop doing "these types of things." I wait for explanation, but he keeps typing, eyes fixed on the screen as if I'm invisible.
"I understand why you want to leave," he says finally, exhaling. "I've had time to think about what you've said."
I bite my tongue. I didn't think him capable of reflection. The realization stings me with guilt.
"I didn't mean everything I said—"
"I've come to a decision," he interrupts. "I'll print your departure papers tomorrow. If you want to leave, fine. I'd appreciate it if you stayed through Friday's revision meeting on the new lace designs."
Dismissed, I stand there—caught between relief and an ache I can't quite name.
Later, on break, I notice him in his office with Ms. Fallon, training her on brand details. I linger in the outer room, feeling like an intruder. They laugh softly, too low for me to catch. He speaks only to her. The longer I watch, the sharper my exclusion feels.
When they emerge, he stops at my desk—not to speak to me, but to criticize.
"I expected her to know which patterns we don't accept by now," he says flatly. "I won't be blamed for her mistakes because you failed to train her properly."
The cold tone knocks the air out of me. Yesterday he'd practically asked me to date him. Now, he sounds like I'd be the last person on earth. Not that I care. But the whiplash is staggering.
That evening, I found him alone on the back staircase.
"Mr. Fabrizi, I just wanted to clarify the things I texted—"
He turns away, hunched over his phone.
"Let's not discuss personal matters at work," he says briskly. "Tell my secretary to meet me at the café next door. She should be finished setting up her desk by now."
His secretary. He's never called her that before. A jab? Apparently, my texts cut deeper than I realized.
It would be easy to quit tomorrow. So why does it feel like I'd be the one losing?
"Do you need anything else, sir?" I ask, forcing cheer. "A caffeine pill? A change of suit?"
"That won't be necessary," he replies. "If you stay past tomorrow, just come for the important meetings. Ms. Fallon will handle the rest."