Chapter 37 – Pleasing the Boss

Work first. You’ll have to wait.

Then I turn my phone on silent and throw it in the shoulder bag at my feet. Too bad if Hadrian’s not happy. I can’t sacrifice the commitment I give to a job that I already have for a vague promise of a job that I don’t.

Thirty minutes later, we only have half of today’s talking points worked out when there’s a knock on the production room door. Everyone at the station knows these meetings are not to be interrupted, so it’s strange, but Jen stands up and quietly slides out into the hall and the rest of us resume our planning.

But less than thirty seconds later, Jen opens the door and calls for Elvis. “You should come out here.” Then she looks at me. “You might want to come too, Brystin.”

I have that bowling ball in my stomach kind of dread. Like I’m sure someone’s been hurt, but who? I don’t have any close living relatives, and Shiloh probably has her brother listed as her emergency contact. Elvis’s got a brother in Boston and a mother in Germany. Maybe something happened to one of them.

I grab my bag in case we have to go straight to the hospital or the airport, and follow Elvis into the hall where Jen is standing with Harold, the station manager, and two security guards.

“What’s going on?” Elvis is less snippy with Harold, probably because he’s a man and essentially his boss. “Did something happen?”

Harold glances at me then back to Elvis, as though he’s afraid to say whatever he has to say. And Harold is not usually the kind of guy who pulls punches.

“What is it?” A new kind of dread creeps down my spine.

“I’m sorry to tell you this way, Brystin, but you’re being terminated. Effective immediately.”

“What?” Elvis and I respond in unison.

“There has to be some mistake,” Elvis says, and I actually think he’s about to fight for me. Which is totally uncharacteristic. “Who’s behind this? You?”

It’s a natural assumption since Harold is in charge here, but I did basically blow off the CEO of the entire company. “Hadrian,” I say.

“I don’t know who sent down the order exactly, but it comes from the top.” Harold is more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. “I’m to have you turn in your badge and escort you out.”

Elvis goes ballistic. “We have two hours until airtime! How are we supposed to replace one of our lead hosts that quickly?”

“I’ll get on the phone and call Suri.” Jen doesn’t wait for anyone to approve the idea before heading back into the production room to get her cell. It’s the right move. The show must go on.

Elvis on the other hand is not done arguing. “Unacceptable. There has to be cause. You can’t fire her out of the blue.”

I don’t disagree. In fact, I’m pretty livid at the moment, but I also know enough now about Hadrian Seymour to know that standing here debating what he can and can’t get away with is absolutely not productive.

I put my hand on Elvis’s bicep to get his attention. “You aren’t going to change his mind. You need to focus on reworking the show.”

“I do have to follow orders,” Harold says, as if I’d been talking about his mind. “I hope you understand, I did push back, but this is my own job on the line.”

“I’ll find out what this is about,” I tell Elvis. “Maybe it means…?” We haven’t been allowed to mention our prospective deal with the main SNC network, but he doesn’t need me to spell it out for it to be clearer.

“It fucking better mean that. And you better tell him this is no way to run a news program. I’ll take care of your things.” He jerks open the door to the production room. “All right, everyone, get ready to pivot.” The door slams shut before he says anything else.

“I truly am sorry,” Harold says again.

“It’s not your fault.” I know better than anyone how hard it is to stand up to the likes of Hadrian Seymour. I reach in my bag and find my badge and grab my cell at the same time.

“Can I say goodbye first?” I ask before handing the badge over to Harold.

“I’m afraid we were instructed to have you escorted out immediately.”

Of course they did. After relinquishing my bag, I look at my missed texts.

There’s only one.

I never wait.

I hate so much that it’s apparently true. That he can just snap his fingers and have everything go his way.

It’s one thing to have butterflies and chemistry, but fucking with my career—my reputation—that’s a hard no. There are so many curse-laden texts I want to send to him right now.

But this is a battle best saved for face to face. So I save my anger for later and send back a less dramatic reply.

Tell your driver I’ll be outside in five.

I look around the studio and say a silent goodbye to the job that began my career as an anchor. A job that I’ve very much nurtured and treasured. A job that has become a huge part of me.

Then I let the security guards escort me off the premises.

A little more than an hour later, the driver turns into the private parking garage at the Seymour Center. I’m dropped off at the same door that had led to the gallery, but Hadrian isn’t there. Instead, a man I’ve never met before is waiting for me, dressed in a suit and tie.

“Pleasure to meet you, Brystin,” he says. “I’m André, Mr. Seymour’s personal assistant.”

“The pleasure is mine.” I put on a smile for the greeting, though it is truly forced. The ride into the city should have given me time to calm down. Instead, it worked me up even more, especially after the stop-and-go traffic we encountered at the last bit of the trip—fucking rush hour. As I watched the clock on my phone, all I could think was, I’m supposed to be on air.

By the time I got out of the car, I’m ready to blow. And now I find out the motherfucker isn’t even here to meet me? “I know you’re doing your job and all, André, but I really was expecting Hadrian to be here.”

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you directly to him.”

“Oh.” Of course he is. “Thank you.” It’s almost anti-climactic considering how badly I want to explode on someone. My fuse will have to last a few more minutes.

I follow André inside. This time, instead of taking the route to the gallery, we turn down a hallway that leads to a private bank of elevators. A code is required to access them, which André quickly types in, and then gestures for me to go in before him.

At least his staff has manners. Can’t say that about the asshole in charge.

I don’t notice the uncontrollable tapping of my foot until André asks about it. “Do elevators make you nervous?”

“No, not really.”

“Men with the last name Seymour, then?” There’s a smile in his tone, and I know he’s trying to make me feel at ease.

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