Chapter Text
There were worse things that could happen to a twenty-something in Seattle than getting fired. Innumerable, terrible, awful things.
She just couldn’t think of any in that exact moment.
Worse, though – it hadn’t happened yet. It would. The other shoe was about to drop, and waiting for it was making her antsy. She picked at her ruined manicure, wincing as she pressed down just a bit too firmly on a freshly bruised knuckle.
She’d been a very successful senior editor at Autumn Publishing for four years and had her eye on the Editor-in-Chief title. She didn’t know anything else. What would she do? Where would she go? Where could she go after all of this? She’d heard Starbucks wasn’t so bad after a few years. Nice benefits. She could become a professional barista, which would be the perfect application her bachelor’s degree. What if she couldn’t make rent anymore? She’d be in an alley, fighting over shopping carts and the warm bit of concrete next to the burning trash bins. The only thing left of her once-promising career would be her face in the papers, contorted in rage, and her fist, connecting soundly with Roland King’s face.
Roland Fay. Her ex-fiancé. And the son of her boss, the CEO of Autumn Publishing. She was currently sitting in his office on the twentieth floor, surrounded by expensive-looking mahogany shelves the expensive-looking books lined up neatly in each row.
George Fay cleared his throat and interrupted her as she mentally applied for food stamps.
He sat there with his salt and pepper beard and fine grey suit, all dressed up like some overstuffed lumberjack-playing-business man. “I want you to know that I bear you no ill will. This has been difficult for all of us. Especially Roland.”
She snorted. “Especially Roland, I’m sure.”
He let her comment go.
“What he did was inexcusable, but I can’t just look the other way after one of my employees punches my son in front of news cameras. The ends don’t justify the means. And your means were very… public.”
Marianne had the good sense to at least appear apologetic. “George, I didn’t intend for this to be as public as it was. At all. But after what he pulled? I just... couldn't help it.”
George sighed and sat back in his expensive, high-backed leather chair. “I get that, I really do. But I also can’t condone that behavior. And I’m under quite a lot of pressure to nip this in the bud.”
She knew this was coming. She’d have been stupid to expect this to go any other way. All that was left was damage control. “Look, if you’d just let me explain to the press, or-“
He shook his head.
“Roland can’t afford any more bad press. He has to inherit this company someday, and he's got to look like he’s turned over a new leaf.”
“But he hasn’t! He cheated on me! His fiancé! And I’m ninety percent sure he’s getting high again. If I can't clear my name, I'm ruined in this business. Are we just going to ignore these little details?” She gestured wildly at nothing in particular, the motion born entirely out of exasperation.
“… Yes. We are,” he replied calmly.
Marianne’s heart thudded in her throat. Her reply was strained.
“… Are you fucking serious right now?”
George’s expression hardened. “Careful, Marianne. I haven’t fired you yet,” he warned.
“You mean you…won’t?” A pathetic twinge of hopefulness managed to worm its way into her voice.
He buried the notion quickly. “Oh, no. You are absolutely fired. But we have to sort a few things out before that’s made official. Like, I need your word that you won’t give them a statement about what happened. You will not comment. At all.”
She leaned forward, fists balled against her knees and her features awash with disbelief. She caught herself with her mouth open and snapped it shut before blurting out her protest.
“What?! No! You think you can just tell me to keep quiet? In case you hadn’t noticed, my reputation’s kind of on the line here, too. And I can fix that really, really easily.” She hadn’t meant to sound quite so threatening, but there it was.
George sighed yet again, as though he’d predicted all of this and was absolutely bored that he needed to go through the motions. The sound made her want to drive a fist through his Macbook.
“I figured as much. Marianne, know that I do regret what happened. My son’s actions are inexcusable. But I have this company to look after, and he is its future. And I can’t have you dredging up what we worked so hard to bury. So I’m going to make you a deal.”
She went still for a moment, fixing him with a burning gaze as she waited for his proposal.
“One of the execs at Forest & King is looking for a personal assistant.”
A pit dropped in her stomach like a bomb. Forest & King. Their direct competitor, a massive publishing house that seemed to exist to poach clients from Autumn. They fought dirty. Years of research and competitive analysis forced her to develop her own intense disdain for the publisher, especially its detestable, unapologetic, bane-of-the-presses Partner and CEO-
“Bogart King has agreed to take you on.”
And there it was. The icing on the shit cake.
Marianne let out a loud groan, a mixed sound of dismay and disbelief. Her head rolled back and shoulders sagged. She could have thrown up. This was all too damn much.
“You want me to go be King’s personal assistant? You want me to work for your competition? How do you think that’s going to look?”
“Like a scorned employee trying to get back at her former employer by joining up with a notorious competitor.”
She let slip a sharp, humorless laugh.
“And you’re not at all worried that I will completely and totally destroy you? C’mon, George. You know what I know.”
He shrugged and responded lightly. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll try. But no. I’m not worried.”
She was sorely mistaken. There were far worse things in heaven and earth than being fired.
It took a few seconds for realization to dawn. Marianne knew exactly what he was doing. It hit her like a bolt through the heart. Despite George and Roland Fay, she loved this company. She’d spent four years of her life here. Personal entanglements aside, it was her dream job. Four years of school at a private university and an English degree later, here she was, reviewing manuscripts. She was exactly where she wanted to be.
Was.
There were good people here, the man in front of her and his spawn notwithstanding. Whatever she did to exact her revenge would have very real repercussions for the people she’d come to call friends. Her mentors, her allies… And they didn’t’ deserve to go down with the ship. The two people she wanted to suffer for this couldn’t fall without causing collateral damage. Inside her, rage lapped at her insides like flames. That crushing sense of defeat didn’t linger long before the anger swelled and swallowed everything else.
She stewed in furious silence.
George Fay broke the quiet.
“Come on, Marianne. How about some gratitude? We won’t press charges, we won’t speak of it again. We’ll write our story and move along: you blew up at my son after a spat and called off your engagement. You'll look for new avenues to advance. Your career will survive.”
Yes, her career as a humble maidservant to the Darth Vader of modern publishing. Her frustration mounted. If she’d been anywhere else in that moment, she might have started crying.
“I won’t do it,” she blurted.
“You will. Or I will make sure you never, ever work in Seattle again. I don’t want to do that, but I will if you don’t work with me here.” He paused. “King pays well. If you want a settlement, name your-“
Marianne’s temper flared and her voice trembled as she struggled to contain it. She felt herself teetering on the edge of violence. “Christ, George. It’s me. I was at your wedding. I deserve better than this.”
“I’m sorry, Marianne. I truly am,” To his credit, there was just a hint of what Marianne thought might have been genuine regret, but she chose to ignore it. She was beyond placating.
Her nostrils flared. “Yeah, right. I can tell by how hard you just screwed me.”
George responded with indignation. “Did you honestly think you could assault my son, threaten to tarnish his reputation, and expect to walk away from it scot-free?”
Her composure dissolved. She stood abruptly, hazel eyes alight with unadulterated hatred. She didn’t feel the same compulsion to strike him as she had with Roland, but the fury there was raw and would not be contained any longer. Painted lips curled over her teeth. She snarled.
“Well maybe you shouldn’t have given your giant douche bag of a son so many chances to show the rest of this fucking country how much of a goddamn dick he is! You know what? I get to be angry about this right now. Really goddamn angry, and you get to hear me out until you pull the fucking trigger. I knew it was a fucking gamble giving Roland a second chance, but you? Clearly, I was stupid for assuming that at the very least, you wouldn’t stab me in my goddamn back. But no, oh ho ho, I can see cleeeearly now, George Fay. I see what you really are.”
She bent at the waist and slammed her open palms down against the edge of his desk. Short shocks of unruly hair slipped into her eyes. The gorgeous glass baubles she’d always admired shook loudly against his desk. One rolled off and thudded dully on the carpet.
Marianne’s voice lowered, damn near a growl as she bared teeth. “You’ve got your deal. I’ll shut up. I’ll take the job. I’ll move on with my life and you will keep your fucking money. I'll take my severance and then I don’t want a dime from you ever again. And I will be just dandy for it. But you and Roland will never stop being sleazy, two-timing, spineless sacks of shit and I will curse your fucking hearts until the day I die. ”
There was white at the edge of her vision. She was vaguely aware that she was out of breath and panting softly.
“Marianne?” George asked plainly after a brief pause.
“What?” she spat.
“You’re fired.”
Marianne heaved a massive sigh. “Finally.”
“Now get the fuck out of my office.”
Boy howdy, did she ever.