“Sheila will see you to your office to pack up,” the HR director says. “IT has blocked you from all our systems during this meeting, so you won’t have access to anything anymore. Sheilawill make sure you leave your badge and see you out. Please…don’t make us ask for a security escort.”
The GM and HR director file out of the room, leaving me glued to my chair, Sheila kneading the backrest of her own.
“What the hell? Sheila?” Tears sting my eyes.
“I can’t talk to you.” Her eyes flick to the ever-present security camera in the corner of the boardroom. “I’m so sorry. Let me see you out.”
My gaze holds hers in awe. “This is such a joke.” Sheila might be my direct manager, but after countless coffees and chats, I consider her a friend. We’re never going to talk about what really happened. This is it.
Sheila sucks her lip and shakes her head. “Company policy.”
I stand so abruptly that my chair topples as I grab the stupid envelope. Sheila catches the chair before it can clang to the hardwood floor. Her fingers tremble as much as my own.
My last shred of dignity is the only thing that convinces me to put one foot in front of the other, leading the way back to the elevators with my back ramrod straight. By the time we reach my office, Sheila is huffing and puffing to keep up with me. I’m basically running in my heels to keep my emotions in check.
“Lexi.” Sheila’s hand finds my arm as we enter my office. I watch her gaze flick to the corners where security cameras usually keep an eye on things, but there are none in my dungeon. There was only one in the small banquet hall, but it got Mia’s face, her spread legs, and The Head in a perfect angled view. And me.Allof me in my idiotic glory, stripping my jacket, my one hand heading for the top button of my blouse. Sheila swallows hard. “I know this is horrible. Honestly?—”
“What am I going to do?” This is wrongful dismissal, isn’t it? I can fight it, but I know I won’t. The situation is too embarrassing. Too personal. My case too thin. “St Chalamet hasbeen my whole career. You know I have my student loan to pay?—”
“I believe they’ve provided a three-month bonus payout. It’s all in there.” She points to the envelope in my hand. “It will buy you some time. The only advice I have is to get out. Get away. When the shit hits the fan, you’re not going to want to be here. Not in Manhattan, not in the state. Maybe not even in the US.”
I chuckle, but it’s laced with a sob that threatens to crack my chest open. “What do you suggest? That I apply for a job at St Chalamet Seychelles? Or should I aim for Bali?” I swallow as she drops her gaze.That’s never going to happen,her stance says. Both those resorts were on my work-goals bucket list, but I’m never going to work for St Chalamet again.
With determined strides, I move behind my desk. My PC and laptop are gone. They weren’t messing around. I open the desk drawers and gather my neatly arranged personal things. Sheila’s gaze follows my every move, until I have placed everything in a St Chalamet laundry bag I have on hand.
I hook my purse over my shoulder. My work phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, and we both still.
“I’ll have to take that call,” Sheila says, holding out her hand.
I pass my phone to her, not bothering to check the screen.
“You’ve got your personal phone? Do you need any numbers from this one?”
“That wouldn’t be allowed now, would it?” The snark in my voice cuts through the tension in the room. “I have my personal phone.”
“Good.” Sheila meets my gaze, the phone still buzzing. “I’ll keep you posted.”
We’re more than colleagues. We’refriends.
“Don’t bother. I’ll see myself out.” I hold my hotel security badge out to her as I grab my coat from the hook on the wall.Ibattle to put it on with the laundry bag and my purse swinging everywhere.
I’m halfway down the corridor when Sheila’s footsteps fall in behind me. We ride the elevator in silence and stop on the first floor, which has the back entrance for staff. This is so embarrassing. Never in my life did I think my perfect career at St Chalamet would end likethis. I was supposed to travel the world with them, work my way up andbesomething. Something bigger, somethingmore. Worst of all is, deep down I know I can only blame myself.
Sheila escorts me all the way to the exit. “What are you going to do now?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Digest? Drink myself into a coma? Leave the city? Go home to Miami? Somewhere where rent and ramen don’t eat through my three months’ thank-you-for-fucking-off money?”
“Oh, God. Lexi.”
No moreOh, Gods. I rush out into the late-November gray and speed all the way to Fifth Avenue, strangling my emotions one by one. This isn’t going to mess with my head. By the time I’ve crossed into Central Park, I’m flushed with all the brainwork my head’s been doing to distract me.
Numbers. Mine aren’t looking good. I can hardly afford rent as it is; without a job, Manhattan is a big no-no. There will be seasonal jobs available, what with December and Christmas upon us, but I don’t want to be Santa’s little helper. I’m not in the mood.
I slump down on a bench and dig my phone out of my purse. I only hesitate for five seconds before I press Evan’s number.
My brother answers in two rings. “Hey, Pickle, if this is about Mom’s Christmas gift, I still haven’t made up my mind. I know you said you can’t spend more than fifty bucks, but I can chip in more. You know I can.”
I love my brother to bits, but his nickname for me is so on point that tears finally spill over. “Dammit, Evan. I’m in a pickle. For real this time.”
