Chapter 1 #2
I drag in a breath, trying not to drown in the tension in the room.
I’m not only being fired because of the hacking.
I’m being fired because, even though nobody would question or say a word about it, that video casts doubt over me, my integrity, and what I was really doing up in that banquet hall at eleven o’clock at night on a random Wednesday evening.
My person, a mere puppet caught on video, has become the physical representation of a whole hotel group.
I see it now. If staff can walk in on a celebrity having sex, what else happens at St Chalamet?
“Usually, we can overlook one breach of our policies with a disciplinary hearing,” the HR director says, her voice cutting into the silence. “Failing to report the Mia Reed incident is your first infringement at St Chalamet.”
I bite my lip, refusing to let it tremble.
I knew it, of course. Every single training session, every single rulebook, every single one-on-one training with my superiors has always stressed: stick to the rules.
Keep your side clean. But at the first speck of dust, I’m found out and forced to resign.
If I told them the whole truth, I’d sweep my side clean, but my reputation would be in tatters.
And I don’t want to be associated with him.
With The Head. Between Mia Reed’s legs. If I had the guts and means to live without a salary, or had a new job lined up, I would have resigned to save face, but I don’t, so I didn’t.
“After consultation with the head office in France and our lawyers,” the HR director continues, “we’ve decided that you may resign with a good reference from us. I’ll sign off on your training, so you’ll have that on your résumé as well, even though you have two months left.”
What a magnanimous olive branch. Could have been worse.
But they don’t get it—being out of a job is the last thing I can be.
I have a student loan to pay. And my best friend and roommate is heading to LA for a role she finally landed after years of auditions.
Just the idea of rent makes me want to hurl.
Tessa only heard she got the role two days ago.
Filming starts in the new year. She’ll be off to LA in two days to get settled there, and we’re scrambling to make a plan with the apartment and the crazy city rent I can’t afford on my own.
“I don’t want to resign.” I sound stubborn and somewhat childish, but there’s a party of three in that video—me, Mia Reed, and the dickhead with his mouth suctioned between her thighs—and it’s the women who are going pay the price.
At least Mia Reed got an orgasm out of it.
I hope. I might have walked in on them, but I retreated as soon as the visual of them winded me.
They didn’t even notice I was there, they were so into each other.
That hadn’t been their first time. I should have known The Head would have women lined up like meat on a skewer.
I know I was in the wrong, but nothing happened on video.
Nothing. They’ve no proof. Maybe that’s what Dad thought, and then, once the authorities started digging, there was so much of it, they had him cornered.
The last thing I want is for anybody to dig into my life, least of all these people.
Maybe it’s deserved, but the only thing I’m getting out of this is a boot up my ass. “I’ve been with St Chalamet for ten years,” I say, anger sprouting. “Since my first summer job in Miami when I was fourteen. I’ve worked hard, every single department. I—”
“It’s with immediate effect.” The HR director’s pointed stare challenges me to dare counterattack. “And due to the nature of the incident, we can’t offer you another position within the group.”
And that’s the crux of the matter. The nature of the incident is what cuts me off at the knees. A cold chill seems to empty my blood and drain it straight to the floor. When it comes to St Chalamet, I’m done?
“To be honest, Lexi,” the HR director says, “there’s no knowing whether Mia Reed will pay to keep the video from leaking on the internet.
Either way, as the only employee possibly recognizable in that video, we can’t afford to have someone identify you and link you to St Chalamet.
Right now, nobody can guess that the video is security footage from the Manhattan St Chalamet.
We need to keep it that way for our reputation’s sake.
” She pushes a white, letter-sized envelope in my direction, the hotel’s crest embossed in gold foil in one corner.
“Here’s some paperwork you need to sign.
Please go through it and have it back to me by tomorrow. ”
Mr. McIntyre stands, and the others follow suit. “Thank you.”
“Sheila will see you to your office to pack up,” the HR director says. “IT has blocked you from all our systems during this meeting, so you won’t have access to anything anymore. Sheila will make sure you leave your badge and see you out. Please…don’t make us ask for a security escort.”
The GM and HR director file out of the room, leaving me glued to my chair, Sheila kneading the backrest of her own.
“What the hell? Sheila?” Tears sting my eyes.
“I can’t talk to you.” Her eyes flick to the ever-present security camera in the corner of the boardroom. “I’m so sorry. Let me see you out.”
My gaze holds hers in awe. “This is such a joke.” Sheila might be my direct manager, but after countless coffees and chats, I consider her a friend. We’re never going to talk about what really happened. This is it.
Sheila sucks her lip and shakes her head. “Company policy.”
I stand so abruptly that my chair topples as I grab the stupid envelope. Sheila catches the chair before it can clang to the hardwood floor. Her fingers tremble as much as my own.
My last shred of dignity is the only thing that convinces me to put one foot in front of the other, leading the way back to the elevators with my back ramrod straight.
By the time we reach my office, Sheila is huffing and puffing to keep up with me.
I’m basically running in my heels to keep my emotions in check.
“Lexi.” Sheila’s hand finds my arm as we enter my office.
I watch her gaze flick to the corners where security cameras usually keep an eye on things, but there are none in my dungeon.
There was only one in the small banquet hall, but it got Mia’s face, her spread legs, and The Head in a perfect angled view.
And me. All of me in my idiotic glory, stripping my jacket, my one hand heading for the top button of my blouse.
Sheila swallows hard. “I know this is horrible. Honestly—”
“What am I going to do?” This is wrongful dismissal, isn’t it? I can fight it, but I know I won’t. The situation is too embarrassing. Too personal. My case too thin. “St Chalamet has been my whole career. You know I have my student loan to pay—”
“I believe they’ve provided a three-month bonus payout.
It’s all in there.” She points to the envelope in my hand.
“It will buy you some time. The only advice I have is to get out. Get away. When the shit hits the fan, you’re not going to want to be here.
Not in Manhattan, not in the state. Maybe not even in the US. ”
I chuckle, but it’s laced with a sob that threatens to crack my chest open.
“What do you suggest? That I apply for a job at St Chalamet Seychelles? Or should I aim for Bali?” I swallow as she drops her gaze.
That’s never going to happen, her stance says.
Both those resorts were on my work-goals bucket list, but I’m never going to work for St Chalamet again.
With determined strides, I move behind my desk. My PC and laptop are gone. They weren’t messing around. I open the desk drawers and gather my neatly arranged personal things. Sheila’s gaze follows my every move, until I have placed everything in a St Chalamet laundry bag I have on hand.
I hook my purse over my shoulder. My work phone vibrates in my jacket pocket, and we both still.
“I’ll have to take that call,” Sheila says, holding out her hand.
I pass my phone to her, not bothering to check the screen.
“You’ve got your personal phone? Do you need any numbers from this one?”
“That wouldn’t be allowed now, would it?” The snark in my voice cuts through the tension in the room. “I have my personal phone.”
“Good.” Sheila meets my gaze, the phone still buzzing. “I’ll keep you posted.”
We’re more than colleagues. We’re friends.
“Don’t bother. I’ll see myself out.” I hold my hotel security badge out to her as I grab my coat from the hook on the wall. I battle to put it on with the laundry bag and my purse swinging everywhere.
I’m halfway down the corridor when Sheila’s footsteps fall in behind me.
We ride the elevator in silence and stop on the first floor, which has the back entrance for staff.
This is so embarrassing. Never in my life did I think my perfect career at St Chalamet would end like this.
I was supposed to travel the world with them, work my way up and be something.
Something bigger, something more. Worst of all is, deep down I know I can only blame myself.
Sheila escorts me all the way to the exit. “What are you going to do now?” she asks.
“I don’t know. Digest? Drink myself into a coma? Leave the city? Go home to Miami? Somewhere where rent and ramen don’t eat through my three months’ thank-you-for-fucking-off money?”
“Oh, God. Lexi.”
No more Oh, Gods. I rush out into the late-November gray and speed all the way to Fifth Avenue, strangling my emotions one by one. This isn’t going to mess with my head. By the time I’ve crossed into Central Park, I’m flushed with all the brainwork my head’s been doing to distract me.
Numbers. Mine aren’t looking good. I can hardly afford rent as it is; without a job, Manhattan is a big no-no. There will be seasonal jobs available, what with December and Christmas upon us, but I don’t want to be Santa’s little helper. I’m not in the mood.
I slump down on a bench and dig my phone out of my purse. I only hesitate for five seconds before I press Evan’s number.
My brother answers in two rings. “Hey, Pickle, if this is about Mom’s Christmas gift, I still haven’t made up my mind. I know you said you can’t spend more than fifty bucks, but I can chip in more. You know I can.”
I love my brother to bits, but his nickname for me is so on point that tears finally spill over. “Dammit, Evan. I’m in a pickle. For real this time.”