Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 29567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 148(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 99(@300wpm)
“Why is this the first I’m hearing about any of this?”
“We’re not allowed to talk to you directly, sir.”
“It’s not mentioned in any of the email notes,” I say. “You could’ve mentioned it there, correct?”
“Maybe, but the last time I deviated from your template, you sent me a mean email.”
“I’ve never sent a mean email.”
“It said, ‘Stop fucking with my shit or I’ll fire you.’”
“I stand corrected,” I say, making a mental note to apologize for that later. “Did Miss Locke receive the percentage bonus for making an impression on the Ferrari account?”
Her weird sounds come over the line again, and I start to hang up.
“She’s still on the unpaid level,” she says.
“How is that possible?”
“Company policy.” She pauses. “No one who is late more than three times in thirty days gets paid. No one who looks like they’ve had a good night’s sleep instead of staying up working gets paid. No one who—”
“I’ll be in touch.” I end the call and pull up the Ferrari campaign on my big screen.
As I fast-forward through the presentation, Braxton strolls into the room with part of my first order in hand. The bread basket…
“Where did you get that?” I ask.
“A delivery girl gave it to me hours ago when I came in downstairs.” He takes a bite. “Said she was allergic to garlic, but they cost twenty bucks, and she didn’t want them to go to waste because of a jerk customer… Where are your bread rolls?”
“You’re eating them.”
He laughs and tosses me the basket.
As I’m taking one out, I spot a mass of auburn curls rushing past the screen, so I hit pause, rewind a few seconds, and hit play.
“No, no, no,” the woman—Miss Ivy Locke—says. “I can’t let my team gaslight you into thinking this is a good campaign.”
She turns around to face the camera, flipping through cards.
“You’ll have to excuse our intern,” a guy says. “She’s not used to being allowed to sit in on campaign presentations.”
“No, I don’t usually come since they’re decent. But this is terrible, and the client deserves better.”
Braxton crosses his arms, looking as confused as I am.
Onscreen, Ivy hands out a different folder and gives a short presentation, outlining the changes she suggests for the campaign. She guarantees that this firm is the only firm that should handle their business because “we’ll always be honest with you… even when it’s inconvenient.”
The room is silent for several moments, until the CEO of Ferrari stands up and smiles.
“You’re hired. Tell us where to sign.”
I hit pause and look over at Braxton. “Did you know about this?”
“Does it look like I knew?” He scoffs. “I think we promoted the wrong executive to chair.”
“She’s an intern.”
“Well, is she still here or has she quit already?”
“The turnover rate here isn’t that bad.”
“It’s eighty percent.”
“It could still be worse.” I set down the remote. “She still works here, but she’s not loyal. She has other job prospects.”
“Well, we need to figure out what they’re offering and get her to stay here with us. Who is it? Someone at Pandora? Goldman Sachs?”
“UberEats.” I cut him off. “She’s cheating on us with UberEats.”
He blinks. “Please tell me you’re going to make this right and talk to her about being employed full time here?”
“Of course.” I lean back in my seat. “I have something far better than that in mind actually…”
—
One Week Later
THE INTERN
IVY
“Okay, here’s the rent for this week.” I hand a few twenties to my landlord’s son. “I’ll have next week’s fee to your dad when I get paid.”
“This isn’t how you pay rent, Ivy.” He groans. “It’s monthly, and I’m only thirteen years old…”
“And?” I shrug. “This is teaching you important adulting skills.”
“Are you really this afraid of my dad?”
Ever since he started cutting off my lights at six o’clock every day, yes. “No, I’m just—This is just easier. I’ll see you later.”
I bolt from the top floor and downstairs, groaning when I see that the front door that was promised months ago still isn’t there.
I make sure my unit’s door is double-locked, and that the fake dog-yell alarm still works when I jiggle the handle.
When I make it out to my car, I slide my key into the ignition, but it won’t give.
Someone stuck a paperclip inside while trying to steal it.
Ugh!
Pulling out my phone, I call my supervisor.
“Heya, heya, Miss Locke!” she answers in the middle of the first ring as usual. “Isn’t today a beautiful day to paint new campaigns?”
“Sure, Miss Fierro.” I slide a pen into the ignition, trying to free the clip. “I’m going to be late today.”
“Again?” She lets out a sigh. “What’s your excuse this time?”
“I’m just going to be late,” I say. I’ve finally learned that the excuse doesn’t really matter. “Late” is late, and she’s going to leave a note in my personnel file about it no matter what.