Chapter 35
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
Gianna
“Are you ready?” Francine asks from my office doorway.
Nope.
I avoid eye contact because I know they’re swollen from crying at the cemetery, and rummage around my desk, presumably to find a notepad and a pen. “Sure. Let me just grab a couple of things.”
Meeting with the Canoodle execs an hour after I cried my eyes out to my dead parents wasn’t how this day was supposed to go. But nothing in these past six weeks went how I thought it would. So I don’t know why I’m surprised.
At least I swung by the house and changed clothes. Going into this meeting with snot on my shirt would’ve been worse.
I find a pad of paper and a pen, then take a quick, hopeful glance at my phone. It’s dark. Drake hasn’t called or texted since this morning, when he told me he was taking Big Ed to the doctor. I know it’s routine, or it sounded that way, but I would still love an update.
Even though I don’t deserve one.
I struggle to breathe as I rise from my chair.
I’m still buzzed from the adrenaline of the afternoon and the anticipation of finding Drake.
I simultaneously want to beg him for forgiveness and throw up at the realization that I fucking love him.
Of course, he won’t hold my behavior against me, but he deserves an apology.
I’ve made peace with my parents, talked to Lucia on my way home, and now I need to talk to Drake, and all will be well in my personal life.
I hope.
Now onto my work life, and I have no idea where it’s about to be headed.
“Are you okay?” Francine asks as we move down the hallway.
“Sure. Why?”
She peers at me out of the corner of her eye. “You just look a little tired. That’s all.”
I shrug because I don’t know what else to say.
Drake’s office is dark as we pass. Juni said he took a personal day and might be in this afternoon. I want so badly to check on him, to hear his voice, and make sure everything is okay with Big Ed.
No, what I really want to do is run out of this building and fly to his apartment and jump into his arms with the biggest apology the world has ever seen.
Francine leaves me to my thoughts on the elevator ride to the top floor. I stare straight ahead, not trusting myself to make eye contact with her. I don’t need her judgment or want her pity. And I definitely don’t want to be compelled to explain.
I open the conference room door and let Francine enter first. She breaks the ice with the suits, allowing me to duck behind her with a quick hello and an even quicker wave.
“Thank you for joining us,” Mr. Brevard says from his place at the head of the table. He’s a big guy with no muscle tone and soft hands—a discount version of Big Ed.
No, Gianna. Focus.
“Of course,” I say, relieved that my voice doesn’t crack. “I’m happy to be here.”
Mr. Johnson, Mr. Brevard’s sidekick for all I can gather, leans back in his chair, smoothing his tie down his chest. “Shall we get started?”
“We’re ready,” Francine says, side-eyeing me.
“Let’s go ahead,” Mr. Brevard says. “They said they might not make it.”
Before I can consider who they’re talking about, the door swings open. Mario enters, followed by Drake.
Our gazes collide, and I’m sure the others in the room can feel the zing. His eyes narrow as he takes me in with my swollen eyes and puffy lips. I tried to hide it with makeup, but clearly failed. Francine and Drake have both noticed.
I give him a soft smile, trying to let him know that I’m okay. It doesn’t suffice. The vein on the side of his throat throbs as if he’s pissed.
Is he angry with me?
My palms start to sweat as I realize that maybe I don’t know what’s going to happen. Maybe Drake is getting screwed over and thinks I’m the reason, although I don’t think that’s true. Or, perhaps he’s upset that I’m upset and didn’t call him. He didn’t give me time.
The truth is, I don’t know the answer because I was a fool. That plummets my spirits even farther.
“There they are,” Mr. Brevard says. “I’m happy we could all meet and get this taken care of in one swoop.”
“We’re glad to be here,” Mario says.
Drake’s eyes bore into me from across the table. I can’t look at him anymore, or I’ll cry again. Somehow, over the past few days, I’ve become a crybaby. I hate it.
“I’m going to get right to it, if that’s okay,” Mr. Johnson says, not waiting to see if it is, in fact, okay. “I’m sure you know that we’ve been discussing who might be the best fit to replace the true crime podcast on Thursdays.”
“We’re aware,” Francine says, as Mario mutters a version of the same.
“We’ve been very impressed with both of you, Drake and Gianna, especially over the past couple of months,” Mr. Johnson says.
“You’re both quick on your feet. Creative.
You have a knack for marketing. People, especially in your target demographic, Gianna, have flocked to Canoodle Media this quarter, and we have the two of you to thank. ”
Mr. Brevard turns to Drake. “We think that Sports Take is the better fit for Thursdays.”
Francine pats my hand beneath the table as if I need consoling.
I don’t know what to feel about this. My gaze lifts to Drake’s.
He’s not smiling or blinking—just staring at me.
Mario is doing the talking, thanking them for choosing their podcast and for believing in them.
But my insides are a tangled mess of emotions anyway.
I’m not sure that I can process anything else today.
“We’ll meet with you two separately on Monday about moving forward,” Mr. Brevard says. “I’m going out of town tomorrow for the weekend and wanted to get this part behind us before I leave.”
“Gianna, we want to talk with you and Francine, however, about doing something a little different with the Gianna Knows Things brand,” Mr. Johnson says, leaning forward and clasping his hands in front of him.
“How would you like to help us develop your GKT brand into something new? Something bigger.”
I take a deep breath and tear my attention away from Drake. As distracted as I am, this is important. I’ve worked for this opportunity for far too long, and I owe it to myself to advocate on my behalf.
“That would depend, Mr. Johnson,” I say. “I’ve worked very hard to create the GKT brand.” Why are we calling it that? I’m too tired to care. It’s a pick your battle day, and this isn’t one I’m willing to fight. “What are you proposing?”
Francine nods. “I agree. GKT is Gianna’s baby, and I think we need to wade into these waters very carefully.”
I give her a quick smile, grateful for the support.
“We’re thinking of taking it to the next level,” Mr. Johnson says with a fake enthusiasm that annoys the hell out of me. “New format—from live podcast to an actual online show. Daily episodes that are pre-recorded. Think reality show meets daytime talk show, only scripted.”
I should’ve drunk more coffee today because this man makes no sense. “And who writes the script?”
“We’ll hire a team of writers. Don’t worry about that.”
“Don’t worry about that?” I ask incredulously. “With all due respect, what makes Gianna Knows Things special and different is, well, what Gianna knows. If someone else is writing the script, wouldn’t it be like every other show out there?”
Mr. Brevard holds a hand out like he’s cautioning me to stay in my lane. That makes me want to jump three lanes and blow a donut. They didn’t talk to Drake like this. Fuckers.
“There is a formula that works, and we know what that is,” he says. “That’s the difference between a show like GKT and a household name. Bigger audiences have expectations.”
“Would I have control over the script—or a say at all?” I ask.
“Sure, you could give us your notes, but it’ll be up to the team to make the final call,” Mr. Johnson says. “This is what we do, Gianna. You have to trust us.”
I close my eyes and try not to laugh. If I do, if one little rumble of a chuckle manages its way from my chest to the outside world, it’s going to be ugly. It’s going to look delirious, like a meltdown in epic fashion. While that will be cathartic, it won’t be helpful.
Francine glances at me and then steps in. “You mentioned last week about spinoff shows. Can you talk to Gianna about that?”
“Sure,” Mr. Brevard says. “Ultimately, what we want to do is create a whole Canoodle family of shows built around GKT. We’ll court the late teens to early thirties demographic.
You’ll be the face of the brand. Francine shared with us the list of requests already pouring in for you to appear on podcasts and in magazines nationwide.
” He folds his hands in front of him. “The potential here is limitless.”
Mr. Johnson engages Francine about the technical aspects that mean nothing to me.
I sit back and watch them go back and forth about my work.
And as I watch the discussions happen about me, but without me, I realize what will happen if I agree to this move.
I’ll be used to make these fat cats even richer.
They’ll parade me around like a dog on a leash, telling me what to say and where to go.
It’s the antithesis of what my show stands for.
I’ve spent months telling my listeners to follow their gut and use their voice. I’ve built a following by being honest. Thousands of people trust me to tell them the raw, unfiltered truth. How can I sell out now?
A flood of nervous energy spreads through me in a gentle but steady wave.
This isn’t what I want. I don’t need to be a household name or fancy GKT branding.
I wanted those things before because I needed to be accepted.
I wanted validation. I wanted to belong to something bigger than myself in a way that didn’t feel personal so that it couldn’t hurt me.
But this isn’t what I needed.
I glance over at Drake. His bottom lip is between his teeth, and his fingers clutch the armrests on his chair. He looks like he’s two seconds from leaping up, and, really, so am I. Because I see things clearly now.
I didn’t need acceptance and validation from others. I needed someone to come in and help me tear down my walls and give me space to find a new path.
What I really needed was a sprinkle of magic fairy love dust.
“Excuse me, Mr. Brevard,” I say in a lull in the conversation. “I am not sure that this transition you’re proposing makes a lot of sense, and I don’t know that it’s in my best interests.”
He exchanges a curious look with Mr. Johnson.
“I think you misunderstand what we’re saying, Miss Bardot,” Mr. Johnson says.
“Apparently so.”
Mr. Brevard sighs. “As we advance, GKT will be transitioned to the format of our choosing. That’s in your contract. You have no say in it.”
“What if I refuse?”
“You have every right to walk away from Canoodle at the end of your contract,” Francine says over the top of Mr. Johnson’s reply.
“You own the rights to your brand. We ensured that we negotiated that in the deal when we signed on here. They can make decisions on how to publish your show while you’re here—but only while you’re here. ”
“If you refuse,” Mr. Johnson says, “we will invoke Article Ten of your contract. You’ll wrap your current season, which ends this week, and we’ll part ways.”
“And I keep all rights to Gianna Knows Things?” I ask.
Mr. Brevard nods. “You do.”
I look at Francine, and she nods subtly, urging me to turn this down. So I take a long, deep breath and blow it out slowly before I speak. I give myself time to regret the decision, but the longer I sit with it, the more it makes sense.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You’ll have to invoke Article Ten because I can’t agree to this. I’ve sacrificed a lot in my life because of who I am and what I love. If I don’t embrace it now, what was the point?”
The suits look at each other and implement a predetermined plan.
“You’ll need to clean out your office immediately,” Mr. Johnson says. “You can return for your show on Friday, but you will need to leave the premises right after. May we also remind you that you cannot disparage Canoodle Media or any of its associates on air or otherwise.”
“I would never.”
“Great.” Mr. Johnson stands and shakes my hand, then Francine’s. “It was nice working with you ladies. I’ll have security usher you out, Gianna.”
Francine and I get to our feet. But, as we rise, so do Drake and Mario.
I shiver as I watch Drake gather his things. What’s he doing?
“Mr. Bennett?” Mr. Brevard says, apparently unsure what’s happening as well.
He bites the inside of his cheek as he lifts his gaze to Mr. Brevard. “I’m going with her.”
“What?” I say before I can stop myself. “Drake …”
“I’m not working for a company that would talk to a woman like that,” he says calmly, as if he doesn’t give a shit what Mr. Brevard says.
“You tried to steamroll her into doing what you want so you could essentially steal her brand.” He looks at me and smiles proudly. “She’s too smart to let that happen.”
Fucking tears again.
“We’re ready and willing to renegotiate your contract next week,” Mr. Johnson says. “You’ll be properly compensated in accordance with the move.”
Drake chuckles, shaking his head. “Money is not an issue for me. Have you ever looked up my contracts from when I played pro ball?”
My jaw drops. I haven’t thought of that. How much money does he have?
Drake laughs at the look on my face.
“I’m tendering my resignation, effective immediately,” he says. “You can send any communications for either of us, me or Miss Bardot, to my attorney.”
I drop my pen and paper and race around the table. Drake catches me as I fling myself into his arms in front of everyone. He’s never held me tighter.
“I’m sorry,” I say, whispering in his ear. “You have no idea how sorry I am.”
He presses a kiss to the side of my face. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Just promise it’s out of your system because I can’t do this again.”
I half laugh, half sob as I hold his face in my hands. I stare into his beautiful blue eyes. “I love you, Drake.”
He presses a soft kiss to my lips, then smiles. “I know.”
Our fingers lace together as the security team from downstairs arrives to lead us out of the building.