Chapter 1 #2
So, I don’t; I turn it off with two taps to my knee and focus on what’s going on outside my head.
The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is frenzied everywhere in New York City.
People sprinting through Midtown with half-zipped coats, latte foam on their gloves, and that desperate energy of humans who realize they still have not bought cranberries.
At Fairfax Media? It is a festive disarray with corporate money behind it.
What does that mean?
The lobby looks like a luxury hotel that tried to cosplay autumn.
Towering vases of burnt orange hydrangeas and wheat stalks line the marble floor.
Every receptionist desk has a bowl of cinnamon-wrapped chocolates someone ordered from a chocolatier who probably has a six-month waitlist. A soft playlist of “tasteful Thanksgiving jazz” drifts through the speakers because someone in Marketing thought it would “elevate morale.”
Employees scurry everywhere, but in expensive coats and coordinated neutrals that make the chaos look intentional.
Assistants with clipboards weave between executives carrying artisan pies from bakeries with names like Hearth and Table.
PR interns lug boxes of branded fall candles that cost more than a semester's worth of textbooks.
Half the staff is trying to get three days of work done in three hours.
The other half is pretending to work while checking flight delays at JFK every three minutes.
Someone always cries in the stairwell. Someone always asks me if I am heading out early, and I always smile politely instead of saying that the company is only functioning because I haven’t left early for nearly two years.
The energy is frantic, but the aesthetic is curated.
It is chaos, but make it a designer one. A very Fairfax combination.
And I know this even before I walk through the revolving doors at nine a.m. sharp.
Security waves me through without a pause, and Will calls out, “Happy almost Thanksgiving, Miss Fairfax.”
I offer a polite smile. “You too, Will.”
The elevator brings me to the executive floors, where, gasp, I was right.
Carina greets me as I head to Dad’s office, my office. “Good morning. Everything is on theme today.”
“I can see that,” I say, looking at a peppermint diffuser someone violated a fire code to plug in.
She hands me a stack of color-coded notes. “They’re already waiting to be called to the conference room for their Holiday Impact brief.”
“Thanks, Carina. Send them,” I say, changing directions and heading that way. “One department at a time.”
FSN, Fairfax Sports Network, arrives first. They always do.
Energy is their personality trait. They spill into the conference room, led by Elliot Drexler, their department head, who dresses as if he were permanently on his way to an ESPN audition.
Today, he is wearing a navy quarter zip and the kind of grin that suggests he’s already had way more caffeine than he should have at this hour.
“Big day, Sof!” he says, dropping three color-coded binders on the table. “Thanksgiving specials. We are talking wholesome content. Warm fuzzies. Dogs in jerseys.”
I blink. “Dogs.”
“Therapy pups visiting the injured kids at St. Luke’s,” he clarifies proudly. “It will make America cry.”
The rest of his team fans out all equally as excited about puppies.
They start pitching segments over one another, rapid-fire.
Player interviews filmed in their kitchens.
Rookie gratitude messages. A montage of the Bears handing out turkeys.
A behind-the-scenes charity skate. A heartstring tug about a retired player teaching his nephew how to skate.
“All great, but let me think about it for a second.”
And by let me think about it, I mean let me think of a way not to piss on your parade. It’s unfocused, emotionally choppy, no narrative build, no anchor storyline. Just vibes. Cute vibes. But still.
“Give me twelve minutes,” I say, already opening my laptop and popping in my earbuds.
Elliot looks confused, not unusual, but his uncle is on the board, so we’re stuck with him for now. “Twelve… minutes?”
“Do you want eleven?” I deadpan.
He goes pale. “No. Twelve is great. Twelve is perfect.”
I start rearranging clips and segment orders.
Slotting emotional beats between lighter ones.
Cutting the turkey handout footage by half because no one needs to watch players carry poultry for five minutes straight.
Removing a painfully awkward interview where a rookie says, “cranberry capitalism”.
Moving the hospital puppy segment to the back half so it lands with the emotional punch it deserves.
By minute four, Elliot whispers to his team, “She is not human.” By minute seven, someone else says, “She is like… a holiday whisperer.” By minute ten, I have a full, finalized flow. At minute twelve on the dot, I turn my laptop toward them.
“This,” I say, “is your lineup. It is clean. It is emotional. It builds. It breathes. It sells your message without smothering the audience.”
Elliot stares at the screen like he’s shook and whispers, “Marry me.”
“No,” I say without missing a beat. “But you can take the plan.”
They scramble out of my office in a tangle of laptops and enthusiasm, already calling the production team to implement every change.
Elliot pauses in the doorway. “You know you are not technically the boss of FSN.”
I smile politely. “I know.”
He glances at the lineup again. “But also, you kind of are.”
Then he disappears down the hall.
Fairfax Studios arrives next, led by Marjorie Keene, a woman who dresses like Meryl Streep in every movie she has ever played except the fun ones.
Today, she is wearing a charcoal blazer so structured it could probably stand up on its own.
Her hair is in a tight twist that looks painful.
She does not do chaos. She does not do jokes.
She does not do anything under ninety percent efficiency.
Behind her trails her team of producers, each holding a tablet.
“Good morning, Sofie,” Marjorie says, crisp as a starched napkin.
“Good morning,” I echo, already bracing.
“We have updates on the winter slate,” she says, sliding a folder toward me. “Two delays, one accelerated timeline, and one project that needs a budget reconsideration.”
Which is Marjorie-speak for someone overspent, someone else undershot, and someone is about to cry.
I flip through the documents. The first two delays are expected.
Holiday filming conditions always slow down productions.
The accelerated timeline? Interesting. A family drama centered on a retired hockey player who adopts a teenager.
The irony does not escape me, given who my personal circle currently contains.
Marjorie clears her throat. “We also have pressure from the board to increase our long-form documentary content in Q2. They want something with cultural weight.” She pauses. “Preferably not crime. They said we have reached a saturation point.”
“I agree,” I say smoothly. “Our brand is prestige, not exploitation.”
One of the producers, Jayden, nods enthusiastically. “We can pivot toward sports legacy features. Retired legends. Human interest arcs.”
He says it, trying not to make direct eye contact with the framed poster of Paul Bronski on my wall.
“Oh, please,” I say. “You can pitch Paul all you want. He is an institution.”
Jayden blushes. “It would rate well.”
“It would,” I agree, and also work well with my personal PR dealings. “But only if done respectfully. And only if we pair it with something contemporary. Mirror the past with the present.”
Marjorie sharpens her gaze. “You have someone in mind.”
I always have someone in mind. “We could pair a Bronski retrospective with a current roster spotlight. Create a narrative bridge. Legacy to present day.”
Marjorie’s eyes light up like someone just offered her a limited-edition fountain pen. “Elegant. Marketable. Approachable for multiple audiences.”
“Exactly,” I say. “I will outline the framing. For now, keep development broad.”
Her producers begin tapping away on their tablets.
Next, I scan their budget issue. One project has exceeded cost projections by a laughable amount. The problem is obvious. Too many locations. Too many rewrites. Too much improvisation for a script that does not deserve it.
I slide the paper back. “Cut two shooting days. Consolidate locations. Script lock by Monday. If they want more time after that, they can fund it themselves.”
Jayden whispers, “She is terrifying.”
Marjorie agrees with a simple nod. “Consider it done.”
Her team gathers their tablets and stand in unison.
As they file out, Marjorie lingers.
“You know,” she says, lowering her voice, “you are very good at this.”
“Thank you,” I reply politely.
“But the board will ask why your father approved production restructuring from,” she pauses, “where is he again?”
My spine goes cold for just a second. “He should be landing in JFK within the next hour.”
“Home for the holidays?” she asks.
“More like for the Holi-day. Then back off to play golf. I believe Hawaii is his next stop. I’ll get his approval and handle the board.”
Marjorie studies me. She is not stupid. She sees more than she should. But she also respects power, and right now, mine is the only thing keeping her department running on schedule.
She nods once. “Very well.”
Then she leaves, and the temperature in the room rises by two degrees the moment her heels click out of earshot.
I take a slow breath. Two departments down. Six to go.
And a whole company to keep upright with nothing but precision, charm, and sheer willpower.
PR arrives like a glitter bomb with a time limit.