Chapter 3 Celeste
I’m standing inside Jill’s office. This conversation is going as well as expected.
Of all the discussions that should’ve been an email instead of a meeting, announcing Ashford Magazine is projected to miss payroll by the end of this year is not one of them.
Moving Jill to a different department is the best option I can think of.
Jill lifts her career-destroying smartphone into the air. “I’m calling my father. He won’t sponsor another dime to Ashford Magazine. You’ll be canceled!”
Of course she’s calling Victor. Her go-to threat. That’s what I get for hiring a capricious nepo baby for a CFO. Another inevitable childlike tantrum that used to keep me up at night anytime I gently advised her to do her job, no longer phases me. Today, I’ve run out of fucks to give.
I open my mouth to inform her she’s being demoted, but something else comes out instead. “You know what? I don’t care who your daddy is. You’re fired.”
Slam.
The office walls shake as I exit, barely able to suppress the fury burning through me.
Words overdue. Jill’s incompetence has derailed my Monday routine for the last time.
I pace down the hallway. Hunger pangs force me to check my watch.
It’s past my usual lunchtime and I need to eat before my 2pm meeting or I might as well cancel.
My mind toggles between where to get food and the state of my business.
Why am I only hearing about this payroll problem for the first time today?
And what the fuck did Jill mean, she was too busy?
Too busy to mention we’re on track to miss payroll months from now?
My jaw tightens. Another person who screwed me over.
Jill promised our ad revenue would cover the spring campaign costs, but the numbers didn’t even come close.
Tens of thousands on a launch that barely broke even.
Before that, she fumbled to secure a key contract.
I should’ve replaced her months ago, but no, I listened to that business consultant—who I shouldn’t have dated, let alone trusted with my empire.
My ex’s promising connections have yielded net nothing but problems. Another fucked decision at the bottom of the stack of poor judgement calls.
My nostrils flare as I turn the corner. Crystal awards and red carpet photos in my peripheral view serve as reminders of the crushing weight of failure. Seven wonderful years. Laughter. Expansion. Groundbreaking success. How did the industry’s top fashion magazine sink so fast?
I don’t need to look to know employees are watching.
The tension in the hallway is palpable. The sudden silence, the careful shuffle of papers.
Everyone’s pretending they didn’t just hear me slam Jill’s door hard enough to rattle the walls.
Today’s a rare occasion for me to lose my temper and it shows.
I halt at the building entrance and peer through the glass double doors at the gray clouds swollen with rain.
Despite the benefits, touching grass doesn’t change the fact that I need to solve a colossal problem.
And fast. Thank the magazine gods today’s Intern Lunch and Learn was canceled.
I pride myself on being an employee-first business owner.
People here depend on me to lead and provide.
But I can’t look the company’s bright future in the eyes right now.
Back in my office chair, I toggle my mouse, intending to drown myself in work, but something catches my eye.
A plastic bag with a note. Untying it, I uncover a grilled chicken salad and French onion soup.
An unwarranted smile tugs at the corner of my lips.
Paya Richardson. She got me food. The note reads:
Don’t forget to feed yourself while I’m gone. First one’s on me.
-Paya
The gesture is kind, and one less thing I have to figure out. My mood lifts for a moment that doesn’t last. Without prompting, my thoughts travel to Paya in a red dress for the third time today. She’s beautiful and exactly the distraction I don’t need.
I decide to go outside before my mind replays the unbothered expression painted on Jill’s pretentious face.
Food in hand, I pace to the rooftop and shove the door closed.
Thankfully, I’m alone. The rain hasn’t started yet, but if it’s any sign of how my day’s going, I know it will soon.
My back rests against the cool glass and I groan as tears sting my eyes, accompanied by an incoming throb in my right temple.
A beat later, my racing mind finally slows.
Fresh air almost always calms my nervous system. I needed this.
I strip out of my suit top, down to my vest and button-up shirt. Last year’s vintage olive green three piece suit. A custom made Riley Davis project, crafted for my Met Gala appearance. A piece that cost a small fortune. What a reckless splurge.
I fling my cellphone toward the metal wine bar and sit on the barstool to eat. The device bounces off the side panel onto the artificial turf with a dull thud.
My business is collapsing like my last relationship, which seemed to fail slowly, then all at once. Why did I let someone mess up my heart and my career? I should’ve trusted my gut. That used to be top priority.
Buzzing from my phone disrupts my train of thought. I’m tempted to just leave the damn thing, but it’s a video call. Only one person has the green light to video chat with me. Given Meg’s recent injury, my big sister duties now include being on-call during work hours.
I scoop the phone from the ground and sit on the barstool, then press the answer button. Wind whips through my hair for a third time, despite my efforts to fix it. “It’s a bad time to tell me you need a backscratcher again.”
Meg laughs, then winces at the pain, her thick brown curls bouncing up and down as she does. “We both know those claw sticks are useless compared to human hands.” Her wide smile shifts into a concerned frown. “You look pissed. What’s wrong?”
“I—” I hesitate, not knowing where to start. I release a heavy sigh. “Nothing for you to worry about. Just work stuff.” Pity is the last thing I need. “I’ll figure it out. Are you good over there? Do you need me to grab you anything?”
“It’s a boot, not a neck brace, Les.” Propped up on her sofa, she dangles her injured leg on camera. “I’m fine. I even have snacks. See.” She shoves a handful of popcorn into her mouth, a couple kernels trickle down her worn t-shirt.
“Three cracked ribs, fractured tibia and two days in the hospital. Definitely not fine,” I add. My baby sister is tough and seemingly always in good spirits, but I worry about her every time she steps into the octagon for a match. I massage the back of my neck.
She changes the subject. “Have you given my request any thought?”
“Request for what?”
She gives me a look of disapproval. Since we were kids, her pout game has proved a successful tactic for getting what she wants. Not today. “The Final Summit. Come on. You should totally do it. Besides, I thought forties were the new twenties.”
Why won’t she let this go? “I can’t afford to miss work,” I reiterate. Literally.
After I decline Meg’s question for the third time in three days, my adrenaline deprived sister reminds me that thousands of people apply every day. I’m a shoe in, and I don’t have to go through the months long process since she vouched for me…Yada yada. As if that’s supposed to encourage me.
I change the subject, hoping Meg drops talks of the game show. “I’m pretty sure my assistant is about to hand me a resignation.” Looking down, I thumb the handwritten message taped to the bag. “First, she requested nearly three weeks off. Now she’s giving me gifts in food.”
“Is that that cute karaoke queen from last year’s Christmas party?”
“That’s her.” I stab a piece of chicken with a fork. “Good assistants are hard to come by.”
“Maybe it’s better she quits,” Meg teases. “Then you two can—”
“Don’t start,” I cut her off and roll my eyes. Not exactly the topic change I had in mind. Why’d I tell Meg about mine and Paya’s moment in the elevator? She’s my assistant. Nothing will ever happen between us.
“Okay, okay. But seriously, Les. You’d kill it with challenges.”
Here we go again.
She continues, “I think this is a great opportunity for you and your company. Imagine your employees cheering for you when they announce your name as the winner. I know the prize money probably isn’t a motivating factor for you being a fancy pants CEO, but The Final Summit would be a great experience. ”
If only she knew.
The conversation drops to a silence. I open my mouth to speak, to tell my sister what I’m going through, but no words come out. Why can’t I voice the moments that matter most?
“Les?” Megan asks, yanking me from the melancholy haze.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I force a smile. “I’ve just got some work stuff. And a sore throat.”
“Ashford world domination problems?”
“Something like that.”
“Get this.” Meg snorts a laugh. “Apparently the producers had a difficult time finding the ‘right’ type of queer women for the show. Roles and all that. I even gave their quirky assistant a list of suggestions.”
That one makes me laugh. “Did you tell them to walk the hiking trails?”
“And the Subaru dealerships, but they were empty.”
I fake gasp. “How about the cat cafes, concerts, and bookstores?”
“Hardware stores, too.” Meg barely contains her laughter, popcorn falling out of her mouth.
“Nothing, huh? Damn.” I exaggerate, blowing air with puffed cheeks. “Sounds like they were stuck with online dating like the rest of us.”
Her camera loses focus from her shaking and giggling. “I almost told them a large donation to a queer organization is required in order to receive the sapphic bat signal.”
We share a deep belly laugh. “Damnit, Meg. You’re funny.
” I fend off a side cramp from cackling and wipe my watery eyes.
I’m grateful I answered her call. “No wonder you’re a fan favorite on the show.
You’re not only in great physical shape, you’re charismatic.
Everyone likes you. I wouldn’t stand a chance if they expect me to have your personality. ”
“They won’t because you won’t tell them you’re my sister.
Plus, your hair will be different.” She exaggerates a wink and points at the camera.
“I think you could absolutely win. I mean that, Les.” She flashes a sympathetic smile.
“Not to sound like a motivational speaker or anything, but when’s the last time you bet on yourself and stepped into the arena? ”
I take a long stare at the towering buildings downtown Charlotte, searching for a response. Nothing. Maybe because I don’t remember the last time I followed the advice I gave so freely to my community.
For a moment, I dream of a world different from this one. I mull over the benefits of being a contestant on The Final Summit. There’s no doubt, money is a solution. But getting a loan would be quicker than joining a reality tv show contest.
Then I think back on the last board meeting and discussions regarding Ashford Magazine’s desperate need for a “big splash” to dominate headlines again and address the engagement decline.
A loan fixes the numbers, but not branding.
Maybe I should take Meg’s offer. My stomach tingles with jolts of excitement in a way I haven’t felt in years.
How can I trust this feeling after all I’ve been through?
Although the thought of me joining the show is far from ideal, there’s a small part of me deep down that feels like I don’t have a choice. I can’t let my employees down. My name. Everything I’ve built. If I don’t get a handle on this, it’s all going to come crashing down.
I sigh, tossing the empty container back into the plastic bag. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both,” I say, my voice small. “Having a desire to do something is irrelevant when you have other obligations that impact lives. Me competing on a gameshow makes little sense. I haven’t camped in years, let alone this. I have a business to run and—”
“You can’t let her hold you back forever.”
My jaw falls slack as my little sister’s eyes of disappointment invade my psyche.
“The old Celeste would’ve jumped all over this out of the box and, dare I say, fun challenge. It’s exactly how you encouraged me to follow my dreams of becoming a professional fighter and how you’ve built your business.”
I swallow the lump forming in my throat.
Since when did she become the wise sister?
The camera shifts as she reaches for the remote that fell from her lap.
I glimpse the family photo on the wall behind her, recalling the day our families blended.
After spending fourteen years as an only child, my father sat me down and told me he’d found love again.
And that I was being promoted to older sister of a small Afro-Latina girl wearing orange crocs decorated with sunflowers as bright as her smile, who’d soon follow me everywhere.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
Her jaw drops. “Really?”
I nod and confirm before I change my mind.
“Hell yes! We’re going to leave an epic Ashford legacy!” Meg’s features light up and she fist bumps the air until she winces in pain. “Ouch. Too much.”
“Yay.” I try to muster some enthusiasm. As Meg geeks out more about her beloved show, her excitement somewhat lifts my mood.
The word legacy circles my mind and the nights at the bar chatting about the ones we’d leave.
Being on a reality TV show to help save my business was not on my bingo card.
I can’t tell her the truth. How can I confess her big sister is a failure?
That this legacy she keeps mentioning is crumbling?
“You know why I call you Les?” she asks.
“Because you’re anything but,” we say simultaneously and laugh. She flashes me an ass kissing, yet reassuring toothy grin. “I already told the producers yes weeks ago, by the way. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”
“Ass.” My eyes go wide. She’s lucky I love the hell out of her. “Thanks. I needed a laugh today.”
I glance at my watch. An hour flew by. “Hey I need to run. I have a 2 o’clock in ten. Talk later.”
“Also, erm—” Meg’s eyes shift from side to side, forcing me to pause. A nervous chuckle escapes. “After the competition, I recommend staying away from online forums for at least a year. And consider doubling up on therapy appointments. But the game is worth it, I promise.”
“Bless,” I mutter and shake my head. What am I getting myself into?
Regardless, this might be the only way to salvage everything I’ve built. Let’s see if survival really runs in the Ashford family. I hope trusting my gut pays off.
“Stick to my rules and you’ll be fine.” She grins while reaching for the back scratcher on the end table.
Damnit Meg. My brows pull together as her face contorts at the attempts to reach a spot on her back. “What rules?”