Chapter 1 #3
They burst into my office, led by Terrie Marlowe, the department head who dresses like PR is a competitive sport.
Today she is in a cranberry-red pantsuit, hair slicked into a ponytail so tight it could cut wire.
She talks fast. She thinks faster. And she leaves a faint trail of expensive perfume and stress wherever she goes.
“Happy almost Thanksgiving, Sofie,” she singsongs, dropping a stack of glossy mockups onto the table in front of me.
“We need approvals on holiday messaging across all divisions. Also, crisis prep for the season because someone always gets drunk and says something stupid between now and New Year’s.
And we want to confirm the rollout for the Bears charity content because the fan engagement numbers are insane. ”
Her team sits and opens their laptops. I always recognize the interns; this one looks like he has not slept since Halloween.
I flip the first mockup open. It is a holiday graphic with a tagline that looks to be trying just a little too hard.
“This font needs to be added to the never again list,” I say.
Terrie gasps. “But it is whimsical.”
“It is… unstable,” I counter. “And the video cut on page three is two seconds too long. Trim it.”
Three interns immediately start typing.
We move on. Messaging drafts for December. Brand safety guidelines. The charity campaign that involves the Bears surprising disadvantaged kids. She has a good eye, but her pacing is off, too. She tries to land all emotional punches at once. It is overwhelming.
I sort everything into a clean escalation. Warm, heartfelt, then powerful. Not a shotgun, a story.
She watches me work, shaking her head. “I swear you do witchcraft.”
“No,” I say. “I just understand the change in attention spans.”
Next is crisis prep. They list possible disasters. A player tweeting something unfiltered. A leaked photo from a holiday party. Someone accidentally hurting themselves during a charity skate. A drunk uncle punching a mascot.
I reorganized their entire triage plan in under eight minutes.
Terrie clutches her chest. “You are the only reason I sleep.”
“You do not sleep,” I remind her.
She points at me with her pen and smirks. “Exactly.”
Then she snaps at her intern for using the wrong brand and shade of red, promises me a clean draft by Monday, and her entire team scurries out of the conference room.
PR is gone. Everything is quiet again…. for about thirty seconds.
The Partnerships department arrives next. They are the diplomats, the negotiators, the deal makers. They are also the most caffeine dependent.
Their leader, Jonah Reeves, steps in with a twelve-dollar iced coffee in one hand and a folder thick enough that I know he’s planned through the Holiday season, which I completely appreciate.
“Sofie,” he says, exhaling. “We need approvals on three collaborations, a renewal proposal, and a sponsorship pitch for Q1.”
His team are the people who speak fluent corporate, influencer, athlete, and legal. They are the UN of Fairfax Media.
I tilt my head toward the stack. “Show me the worst one first.”
The room laughs nervously. They know I am not joking.
Jonah hands me the collaboration proposal for a trendy beverage company desperate for relevance. They want players promoting protein sparkling water with questionable flavor names like Arctic Swirl and Mango Surge.
“This is horrible,” I say.
“It is,” Jonah agrees.
“Why is it on my desk?”
“Because the CEO plays golf with one of our board members.”
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll ask Drew if she has any rookies she wants to promote shit, or you could just decline politely. Suggest a charity component. If they agree, we revisit.”
Next is a fashion brand partnership for winter apparel. That one is good. Clean, on trend, and already predicted to sell out.
“Approve,” I say. “But adjust the phrasing in section four. We do not say cozy couture. Ever.”
Jonah makes a note. “Understood.”
Then we get to the big one. A holiday charity collab proposal with a national toy brand. Great on paper. Messy in execution. No clear distribution timeline. Bad PR risk if they fall behind.
I take a moment before proposing, “We take it. But only if they let us oversee logistics. I will not have a repeat of last year’s teddy bear shortage meltdown.”
Jonah winces. “Parents still send me angry emails.”
“They should,” I say. “That was traumatic.”
His team agrees.
We move on to renewal contracts, partnership analytics, and brand sentiment scores. I make cuts. I tighten language. I shift timelines. The room watches me like I am performing surgery. I fucking love it.
When we finish, Jonah sits back, exhausted. “You know, sometimes I think you are the only person keeping this company on trend.”
I offer a small smile. “Then do not mess up the toy deal.”
He laughs, salutes me with his coffee, and then leads his team out.
Once Partnerships clears out, I barely have time to inhale before the next wave arrives.
News and Editorial pops in next with Elena Voss at the helm. Sharp update, sharper eyes, one headline tweak from me, then they are gone.
Digital and Streaming follow. Dev Mehra mumbles about analytics; I reorganize their Q1 strategy in under five minutes, and he bows as if I performed an exorcism.
Marketing and Creative Strategy breezes through with color palettes and campaign drafts. Three approvals, one kill, two minor reworks, and they scurry out before the glitter settles.
Finance and Investor Relations enters like someone dimmed the lights. Charles Davenport hands me projections and watches for weakness. I give him none. He leaves mildly annoyed, which is my baseline preference.
Legal and Compliance come in with contract language and risk summaries. I sign off on everything except a clause that sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen. Marina nods once and disappears.
HR and Talent stop by to remind me humans exist. I approve their staffing adjustments, politely ignore their concerns about “employee emotional climate,” and wave them out.
Events and Live Productions updates me on holiday broadcasts, which I condense into three actionable notes and a single “no, absolutely not.”
Finally, IT and Infrastructure materialize. Owen grunts something about servers and cyber hygiene. I authorize upgrades, and he vanishes like smoke.
By noon, every department is handled. Fast. Efficient. Clean. Dad would be proud.
I stand ready to head to the office when I see them.
Three shareholders. Old money faces, old world entitlement. Standing outside my father’s office like wolves waiting for a weak deer.
My stomach drops.
“Miss Fairfax,” Herman Muldoon tries to make his sneer look like a smile. Epic fail. “We hoped to meet with your father regarding end-of-quarter adjustments.”
My pulse kicks into my throat; a meeting now is impossible.
I fold my arms, voice even. “He’s not available.”
“Then we will wait,” Scott Smith is already reaching for the door.
“Not necessary,” I say calmly. “He has a restricted schedule until Q4 closes.”
Whitaker Crane, the third, looks me up and down, making my skin crawl. “We have concerns about his ongoing travel. His absence from the office. This lack of presence is… unusual.”
Translation? We sense weakness, we want proof, we are ready to pounce.
I am two seconds from inventing a story when the elevator dings.
Matteo steps out like divine intervention in an Italian wool suit.
He approaches with smooth confidence, voice carrying the weight of two decades running my father’s life.
“Gentlemen,” he says warmly, “this conversation has already been addressed.”
They turn toward him reluctantly.
Matteo continues, tone polite but sharp enough to pierce armor.
“You have all received your quarterly reports. Every division exceeded projections. Revenue grew ahead of schedule. Shareholder returns surpassed last year’s numbers.
Clearly, Mr. Fairfax is performing his duties and performing them well. ”
The men shift, caught off guard by the blunt recitation of their own financial gains.
Matteo smiles with a disarming calm. “Surely a man who delivers growth at that level is entitled to travel as he pleases. Just as you all do. We would not want to hold him to a stricter standard than the one you set for yourselves.”
The shareholders stiffen because Matteo has just politely called them hypocrites.
“Mr. Fairfax informed you that he will be in New York for the holiday, then away again until the new year. He looks forward to meeting after the quarter closes, as scheduled.”
Silence, and then, with tight smiles and bruised pride, they retreat toward the elevator.
When the doors close behind them, I finally allow myself to breathe.
Matteo glances at me. “They walk in here thinking they run Fairfax. They forget who started it, and who keeps it alive.”
I swallow the knot in my throat. “Thank you.”
He gives a slight nod. “We hold the line together.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“But you did,” he says simply.
Matteo tilts his head. “Go home. Change for the game tonight. And breathe, Sofie. You do not always have to be the shield.”
I smile, small and grateful, but he is wrong, of course. I absolutely do. There’s so much on the line for everyone.