ONE
SOPHIE
The rippling of whispers started in the back corner. An old-school game of telephone where one person whispered to the person next to them, then to the next, then to the next. People darted back to their sharp-white, open-seating desks with cool, yet impractical, teal LED lighting, when the ripple turned into a wave. “He’s coming!”
Sophie Black launched into her rolling chair and scooted up to her desk. She straightened her ripped-edge pencil skirt and ran a flattened palm against her buzzed head. The tiny hairs prickled her skin and lowered her heart rate. She checked the bingo card on her smartphone. Only four left for a full blackout. All she needed was an “attagirl!,” “working hard or hardly working,” “rise and grind,” and “let’s turn that frown upside down.”
Was playing office bingo based on what clichéd business jargon the CEO would next spew immature? Absolutely. A fireable offense? Probably not. Did it make the twelve-plus-hour workdays more palatable? Definitely.
George Northwood deserved a little crap for his behavior. When she interviewed for an entry-level assistant position at Mahogany and Moon Creative Agency right out of high school,he’d barged into the hiring manager’s office, and within two minutes, joked she should call him “King” or “Captain” and asked her, with her shaved head and all, if she ever “caught pneumonia.”
Whatever that meant.
Six years later, besides the company growing to five hundred employees and now occupying four floors of a Seattle high-rise, not much had changed with George. So yeah, office bingo was just fine, in her humble opinion.
She focused on the screen, reviewing the remaining tactics needed for her latest campaign—frozen meatballs. Sure, it wasn’t a sexy product like what the other project managers had, like coffee, sodas, or technical gadgets. Someone even did an ad for a twelve-speed, purple unicorn vibrator that she was still envious over. Yet, even with the sub-par campaigns her manager assigned her to, this job was her dream.
After spending the last six years in this office doing everything from coffee runs to faxing (like, seriously, who faxes anymore?)to answering emails, she’d applied every scrap of energy into landing her dream job—creative project manager. The heartbeat of the campaign, diligently executing against timelines, evaluating risks, and communicating between teams. For so many years, she wondered what it would feel like to walk into a room and have people snap to attention. And finally, it happened. The validation was borderline addictive.
She yawned and tossed back the final few droplets of coffee. Today was only Wednesday, but she’d put in over thirty hours already, with no end in sight. The project management platform pinged with a new notification. She reviewed the most recently uploaded creative—a social post with a steamy Crock-Pot of meatballs.What a crock of… deliciousness! Enjoy Jorge’s mouthwatering salted meatballs with BBQ or teriyaki.
Suppressing the twelve-year-old level of maturity to giggle at “mouthwatering salted meatballs,” she messaged the creative lead that they needed to review the copy—and crossed her fingers they changed it up at least a little, so people like her would not crack up over the words. She bit back the overwhelming urge to provide feedback, as the creative team never took kindly to those nudges.
The heavy, dark wood office doors slammed. Sophie strained her neck to look past the swinging, flaming-magenta hammock chair that no one ever used to confirm King George had indeed entered the room. The sun reflecting off his multiple gold stacked rings, rope necklace, and overly whitened teeth nearly blinded her.
“All right!” His baritone voice bounced against the walls. “Who’s ready to take it to the next level, Northwood-style?”
“Bingo,” a voice muttered in the corner.
Dammit.She’d have to clear her card and lose the ten-dollar ante. She sighed and refocused on her computer screen.
An instant message popped up from her manager, Malcolm.
Can you come to my office?
Thankful for solid Malcolm-relief, she rushed to the end of the room, and knocked on his open door. No amount of bamboo plants, paperwork, multiple monitors, and scattered coffee mugs could hide Malcolm’s smile while looking at his phone. No doubt she was about to be bombarded with images of his infant.
Malcolm waved her in and shoved the phone under her nose. “Wifey just sent these. I mean, for real! Look at that face.”
Sophie slunk into his beautiful, yet dreadfully uncomfortable, overstuffed white sitting chair. “Isn’t there some sort of HR code that says you shall not force your staff to look at pictures of your baby?” Scrolling, she smiled at what seemedthe same twenty images of a drooling, bald baby. “God, she looks like Amanda.” She handed the phone back. “Let’s hope she inherits your wife’s personality, too.”
“Hey!” His full black beard jerked as he twisted his mouth.
Man, she’d missed this—sitting with her mentor, getting the shot of serotonin needed to get back to the grind. The twelve weeks he had been gone were some of the longest of her life. “You adjusting from being back from paternity leave?”
“Truthfully? No.” He tossed the phone to the edge of the desk. “It’s been what… seven, eight days? I’m ridiculously jealous that Amanda gets another three months with Gracie. Might be time to invest in some obscure cryptocurrency so I can retire.”
She huffed and peeked out the window. A rare stream of sunlight elbowed its way through the dense spring Seattle clouds. She crossed her fingers that she could take a ten-minute walk over lunch to suck up some vitamin D before her bones crumbled. “Well, you don’t look terrible for staying up late with an infant. New haircut?”
“You like my new fade?” He brushed his hand over the top of his tight black curls with a grin. “Once I get rid of my dad bod, I’m gonna look just like Michael B. Jordan.”
“We all have dreams. Maybe if I grow out my hair, I’ll look like Paris Hilton.” She grinned. “Did you call me in here to force me to look at your baby, who won the genetic pool lottery from your wife? Or were you saving me from Captain Dillweed.”
“Sophie.” He wagged his finger. “Be nice.”
Malcolm never blatantly said that George Northwood made him want to gouge his eyeballs out with a silver-plated fountain pen. But he neverdidn’tsay that, either. George was relatively harmless, mostly clueless, and the clients loved him. But she’d bet good money that did he not hand out the best bonuses in the business, half the staff would’ve fled by now.
Malcolm drummed his fingers on the desk, his wedding band clinking against the wood. “Do you know what today is?”