Page 2 of The Bad Girl List

“Dominique, can I see you in my office, please?” Sophia pauses beside my cubicle with a fake smile I have come to recognize. It’s the one she wears when she’s about to tell us we lost a bid proposal, or a design brief was awarded to another one of the project managers in Presidio.

It’s also the expression that tells me I am in trouble. I follow her through the cubicle rows and into her office, feeling like the naughty kindergarten kid who’s been called to see the principal.

Sophia shuts the door behind her. “What the hell was that?” she demands, rounding on me.

I swallow, trying to rally the defense case I had mentally prepared while revamping my design boards. Defying Sophia had been a risky proposition. So risky, in fact, that I’d talked myself out of it until ten o’clock last night.

Then, lying in bed surrounded by boring white wine labels jumping over the proverbial fence, I’d grabbed my approved foam presentation boards and cut them up with a knife.

I’d pulled an all-nighter, taking my three original, un-approved designs and refining them. The result was three labels that were fresh, modern, and elegant. All the things Mr. Moretti had asked for.

They sure as hell aren’t clones.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Sophia fumes. “Do you know how hard I worked to land this account for Presidio? If Tim Moretti approves one of our designs, our agency could be awarded the redesign of the entire Moretti portfolio.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I know I went against protocol–”

“You just showed a client three designs I did not approve.”

“I know. But when we did the intake call with Mr. Moretti, he said he wanted to freshen things up and take his label in a new direction. He kept saying–”

“I know what he said,” Sophia snaps, “but you know how important it is to key into the defining elements of the competitive set.”

She snatches a printed PowerPoint presentation and holds it up, smacking one finger against the paper for emphasis. “This is the competitive set he provided.” The bottles she points to on the sheet are more clones, more white labels with boring vineyard and winery pictures. “This is the set where our redesign needs to live, on the shelf with these bottles.”

“He wants the Moretti brand to stand out on the shelf,” I reply. “How does making a clone label make him stand out?”

“A what?”

“A clone.” I point at the PowerPoint printout. “How does making clones of these labels help Moretti Winery stand out? Tim said he wanted to be different.”

“You weren’t hired to get into our client’s head,” Sophia says. “You were hired to follow directions.” She lets out an exasperated sigh and tosses the printouts back onto her desk. “I’m sorry, Dominique, but this just isn't working out. I can’t have someone on my team I can’t trust. I’m going to have to let you go.”

I blink, taking a step back as heat rushes to my face. “For one mistake? You’re firing me for one mistake?” I knew Sophia would be angry, but I hadn’t expected this. I pull regular all-nighters for Presidio Designs, and she knows it.

“This might be the first time you pulled a stunt like this in front of a client, but you’re consistently coloring outside the lines. Every round of first draft proposals are designs from the Twilight Zone. It’s like you never even read the briefs.”

“I do read the briefs,” I say, trying to backpedal. “But why do we always assume our clients want clone art? What’s wrong with throwing something out there that walks the edge? I mean, we’re a design firm. We’re supposed to design.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Clients choose to work with Presidio because they know we won’t waste their time with stuff that won’t hold up in the market. Being at home among the competitive set is important. There’s a reason wines are organized by price point and varietal on the grocery store shelf. A customer looking for Two Buck Chuck doesn’t want a hundred dollar bottle of Moretti Old Vine Zin, or vice versa. Designs that don’t key into customer expectations are a waste of time. Time is money, Dominique, and today you wasted my time, Presidio’s time, and Tim Moretti’s time.”

“Can’t we at least wait and see what the Moretti family says about them? What if–”

“We already saw Tim’s reaction to them. He called them unconventional. That wasn’t a compliment.” Sophia shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but my decision stands. Pack up your cubicle and be gone within the hour. If you leave quietly, I’ll make sure you get paid for the vacation time you have scheduled for tomorrow and next week.”

As she exits her office and leaves me alone, I think I might be sick. My face is flaming hot, my body tingly from shock, and my feet hurt like hell in these stupid shoes.

What the royal fuck had I been thinking? I had convinced myself that switching out the proposals had been a good idea, that I knew better than Sophia what Moretti Winery wanted. I’d spun a magical tale, one where Tim Moretti exclaimed in delight and surprise at my designs, and one where Sophia finally stops scrapping my best work.

As I stand there, reeling from my bad decision, something cracks open inside me. A very unwelcome feeling rushes through my body, chasing away the shame and humiliation.

It’s the same feeling I have every time Sophia promotes someone else over me, and when I think about Oliver leaving me for his tennis partner. The white-hot sensation roaring in my ears and making my spine straighten is anger.

No matter what I do, it’s never enough. All the extra hours I’ve logged for Sophia don’t count for anything. One toe out of line, and now I’m fired.

It was the same with Oliver. I spent the last five years supporting his tennis obsession and his accounting career. And what does it get me? Dumped for a five-foot-ten blond.

I stalk out to my cubicle, grab my backpack, and shove in my few belongings. A picture of me and my cousin, Annika, and my sketchbook and colored pencils, which I kept in a drawer but barely touched in my two years with Presidio.

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