Magnificently.
Then she turns and walks out.
I watch the door close behind her.
My hands are suddenly shaking.
And my heart is pounding like I just ran a marathon.
She’s the only person in this building brave enough to tell me I’m wrong.
And I just threw her out.
I sink into a chair and press my palms against my eyes. The pressure helps, slightly. Keeps me from punching something else and adding another scar to the collection.
I have more back-to-back meetings scheduled in that conference room, and stay there for the restof the day.
When I finally get back to my office, Bree has long since gone home, as has everyone else.
But there’s a purple sticky note on my desk.
Fire me if you want. But read this first.
Beneath it is a complete revision of Paloma’s media strategy, courtesy of Bree. Handwritten notes in the margins. A full narrative framework that doesn’t grovel but doesn’t attack either. It’s confident and honest, and acknowledges the concerns without apologizing for existing.
It’s fucking brilliant.
She’s right. About Paloma. About my controlling bullshit. About all of it.
And she rewrote this to help me. Even after I told her to get the fuck out.
My phone buzzes. A text from Bree.
Just a reminder, your donor dinner is at 7.
Back-to-back meetings.
I note that she said nothing about these latest revisions in her text.
Typical Bree. Never wants credit for anything.
I grab my jacket. Shove her sticky note into my pocket.
Head for the elevator.
I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me when she said I was cruel.
Like I was better than this.
Like she believed I could be.
Fuck.
10
Bree
Of all the days for Piper to take her lunch break exactly on time, it had to be today.
