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But Fitz Westfall and my father at the same table? AndNolan?
Shit. I’m reconsidering my belief in a Catholic God just to have someone tangible to pray to right now.
“You’re gonna break that if you fuck with it any more,” Vic mutters, gesturing to the fidget cube in my hand. I’d resorted to a fidget cube. That’s where I’m at right now.
“I’ll buy a new one,” I seethe back, pushing the joystick with my thumb another three times as I slide open the latest email from one of the production team leaders, with a list of items from each department for the winter launches - many of which are already in manufacturing, or will be soon.
I scan the list, spotting a few of each of our other designer’s items, as expected. But when I make it to the end of the apparel list, I stare at my screen, and then scroll back up, reading it again.
None. Not one of my designs made the list.
“You have got to be shitting me.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, and a few people around us stop typing. Vic rolls out of his cubicle again, eying me. By the thin line of his lips, I know he’s just read it, too. “Tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.”
“Deep breath.” The look I shoot him has him gulping audibly, and he rolls toward me. “Piper, it’s just one season.”
“One season I’ve designed three times my usual amount for.”
Hormones, this has to be hormones, right? This innate rage that has me wanting to fucking launch my fidget cube at my expensive ass double monitor setup? I want to scream. I want to break something. I want to tear through this office like a toddler who didn’t win a tiara.
I love designing things that make people feel good about themselves. I love giving people the power of feeling sexy. I love seeing my creations come to life. I love this job.
Well. I loved this job.
I close my eyes, trying to take the deep breath Vic suggested. I meditate all the time. Carla’s mom is a master yoga instructor. Deep breathing is my jam.
But right now, all I want to do is breathe fire.
As I open my eyes, I push to standing, setting my fidget cube down on my desk with a little more force than necessary.
“Piper,” Vic starts, his tone concerned, and I swallow, fingers wrapping around the edges of my desk.
“I can’t do this, Vic.” My voice comes out strangled, and I blink back tears. I’m not even sad - I’m angry. Angry that I’ve spent so much time with my head buried in the sand, dedicated to this job - to these designs - that go nowhere.
Vic’s sigh is resigned, and when I turn to look at him, his shoulders are slumped. He runs a hand through his hair, effectively ruining the perfectly styled pouf he had going on.
I don’t wait for him to continue before pushing off from my desk, rounding the corner and stepping into the hallway outside Brianna’s office. One final deep breath, and I step into her doorway, watching her type at her computer for a second before I knock on the door.
The sound makes her glance my way, just for a second, before she registers who’s standing in front of her and her hands freeze hovering above her keyboard.
“Piper, come in,” she says quickly, rolling back after a moment and gesturing to the seat in front of her. Staring at the ugly knit fabric, I nearly lose my grit. What am I going to say? Am I going to demand that they change the winter lineup? Shove some of my designs into production fast and dirty?
Before I completely chicken out, I close the door behind me and move to step into the chair, and then pause. No. I need to stay standing for this. It should be a quick conversation - one way or another.
“I saw the production list for winter,” I start, trying to keep my tone even. My fingers grip the back of the ugly chair in front of me, and I’m sure they’d be white-knuckled if it weren’t for the padding.
“Ah.” Brianna sniffs, pulling her glasses off, and the move reminds me of my dad - just a little bit, but enough to catch me off guard. “I was hoping I’d have a chance to chat with you before they sent that out.”
“Well, you’re chatting with me now.” My tone is a little less measured, and comes across as kind of catty, but at this point, I’m lucky I'm not a sobbing mess. Willingly confronting someone when I’m unhappy isn’t my style.
Brianna’s jaw tenses as she looks up at me, and I can tell she’s as uncomfortable as I am - probably more so, with me towering over her. I’m already tall, but in heels I might as well be a giant compared to her small frame.
“Why didn’t any of my designs make the cut?”
Whoomp, there it is.
“The brand-"
“Please don’t talk to me about the brand,” I cut her off, and her eyebrows shoot up to meet where her hair is slicked back in a tight bun. “Bri, I know this brand backwards and forwards.”
