Forty, Flirty & Fired (Forty and Flirty #1)

1. Happy Birthday to Me

1

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

MACKENZIE

Pro tip: if you're about to get fired, don't wear your favorite red power suit. The dry cleaning bill from stress-sweating through Italian wool is no joke.

"Ms. Gallo, the board appreciates your twenty years of service to Innovatech..."

I tune out the HR drone and focus on the sad desk plant I've kept alive for fifteen years. Longer than my marriage lasted. Speaking of things that are dead, my career is currently being eulogized by someone who started working here when I was already a Director of Innovation Strategy.

"...restructuring after the acquisition..."

The acquisition. Right. Because apparently two decades of successfully integrating tech startups wasn't enough to save me from Drake Enterprises' corporate chopping block. The same Drake Enterprises run by Alexander Drake, Seattle's most eligible tech bachelor—if you're into emotionally unavailable workaholics with perfect hair and a reputation for destroying companies faster than I destroy a plate of my nonna's cannoli .

"...security will escort you out..."

"Sorry, what?" I snap back to attention. "It's my birthday."

Karen from HR blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"It's my forty-second birthday. Today. You're firing me on my birthday." I laugh, but it comes out sounding more like a strangled espresso machine. "That's... that's actually impressive timing."

She shifts in her seat, clearing her throat. "We weren't aware?—"

"Obviously." I stand up, smoothing down my suit. Twenty years in tech has taught me one thing: never let them see you sweat. Or cry. Or show any human emotion that might make you seem "too emotional" for leadership. "I assume I can pack up my things?"

Two security guards hover in the doorway like particularly buff bookends. Because clearly, a five-foot-six Italian woman in Louboutins is a major security threat.

"Of course." Karen hands me a cardboard box. "You have thirty minutes."

Great. Three decades of education, twenty years of experience, and now I get to play Beat the Clock with my office supplies. At least I wore the shoes that make my calves look amazing. If I'm going down, I'm going down stylish.

"Hey, Mac!" Tony from Engineering pokes his head in. "You coming to the charity gala tonight? The whole team's..." He trails off, taking in the security guards and the box. "Oh."

"Sorry, Tony. Looks like my invitation just got lost in the restructuring." I start dropping photos into the box. Me with my team at our last successful launch. Me with my sisters at the Women in Tech awards. Me with my ex-husband at our wedding.

Actually, that one can stay here.

"That's messed up," Tony mutters. "After everything you've done for this company?— "

"It's fine." It's not fine. Nothing about this is fine. "Corporate evolution, right? Survival of the fittest and all that jazz.”

I grab my emergency tiramisu from the mini-fridge—thank God I didn't inhale it yesterday—and my "World's Okayest Boss" mug that my team gave me last Christmas. Was everyone else in on this? Did they all know I was getting axed?

My phone buzzes. A social media notification. Because apparently, the universe thinks my day isn't painful enough.

@TechCrunch: Breaking: Drake Enterprises completes hostile takeover of Innovatech. CEO Alexander Drake promises "streamlined integration" of assets.

Assets. That's corporate speak for "people whose lives we're about to wreck."

I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. But you know what? I'm forty-two, unemployed, and running on spite and caffeine.

Pulling up the anonymous corporate social account I created six months ago—one with the convenient tagline of “Documenting Silicon Valley's biggest dickheads,” I tap out a new post:

@MizzByteMyAlgos: What do you call a tech CEO who thinks "corporate culture" is something you get from a Silicon Valley yogurt shop? @AlexanderDrake Everything wrong with tech bros, wrapped in a overpriced suit. #CorporateKiller #TechBro

"Ms. Gallo?" Guard One gestures to his watch.

"Yeah, yeah. Just let me..." I grab my last photo—me and my sisters at our parents' fortieth anniversary party last month. Mama had threatened to disown me if I missed it for a work emergency. "Family first," she always says. "Work is work, but family is forever."

I should have listened more.

My phone buzzes again. My sister Lucia: "NONNA SAW THE NEWS. GET TO THE RESTAURANT NOW. She's now cooking enough pasta to feed all of Seattle. "

At least I know where I'm having birthday dinner.

I straighten my shoulders and head for the elevator, security flanking me like I'm being marched to corporate execution. Which, technically, I guess I am.

The doors open on the lobby, and because timing is everything in comedy and tragedy, out steps Alexander Drake himself, looking like he just stepped off a GQ cover in his charcoal suit and perfectly styled salt-and-pepper hair.

Our eyes meet. His green ones widen slightly at my escort, then narrow with recognition.

Of course he knows who I am. The ass-hat probably signed my termination papers himself.

I adjust my grip on my sad little box of office memories and give him my sweetest smile. "Mr. Drake. Love what you've done with the place. Really getting that 'soul-sucking corporate wasteland' vibe down."

He actually looks startled, like he's not used to people talking back. "Ms. Gallo?—"

"Save it for your next TED Talk on 'Disrupting Human Decency.'" I sweep past him, head high, hips swaying in what I hope is a confident strut and not a desperate wobble.

I make it all the way to my car before the tears start. Twenty years. Gone in twenty minutes.

My phone buzzes. Lucia again: "Nonna says get here NOW. She's making her angry arancini."

I wipe my eyes, careful not to smudge my mascara. Fine. Okay. This is fine. I'm fine.

I start my car and pull up directions to my family's restaurant in my GPS—a habit I don't need after thirty years, but right now I need something familiar to focus on.

Something—other than the late October leaves—catches my eye as I drive past the building's event space: workers setting up for tonight's charity gala. Crystal champagne flutes gleam in the afternoon sun as they're unpacked .

Fancy champagne. Stuffy tech bros. An open bar.

I wonder if Drake Enterprises' charity gala tonight has a good security system. Because suddenly, I have some free time and a score to settle.

And I've always believed in killing two birds with one stone.