“You’re fired.”
Two words. Three syllables. I’d mentally prepared myself for them since Saturday night’s fiasco, but they still hit me like a punch in the gut.
Breathe. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.
It didn’t work. Oxygen couldn’t bypass the knot in my throat, and tiny pinpricks of black swam across my vision as I stared at Meredith’s seated figure.
She sipped her coffee and paged through the latest Women’s Wear Daily like she hadn’t reduced my life to rubble in the space of ten seconds.
“Meredith, if I—”
“Don’t.” She raised a manicured hand, her expression bored. “I already know what you’re going to say, and it won’t change my mind. I’ve been watching you and your lack of enthusiasm for a while, Stella, and Saturday night was the last straw.”
The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth from how hard I bit my tongue.
Lack of enthusiasm? Lack of enthusiasm?
I was the first person in and the last person out of the office. I did eighty percent of the work on shoots for a fraction of the credit. I never complained even when she threw the most outrageous requests at me, like getting Chanel to ship a limited-edition couture gown to us from Paris with less than twenty-four hours’ notice.
If that was a lack of enthusiasm, I shuddered to think what she considered an appropriate level of dedication.
“Yes, I noticed,” Meredith said, mistaking my silence for agreement. “I admit, you have a good eye for style, but so do a thousand other girls who would kill to be in your position. You clearly don’t want to be here. I see it in your eyes every time I talk to you. Honestly, we shouldn’t have hired you in the first place. Your blog generates enough traffic to be considered a competitor, and our contract forbids our employees from engaging in competitive business practices. The only reason we didn’t fire you earlier was because your side job didn’t interfere with your work.”
Meredith took another sip of coffee. “On Saturday night, it did. You’ll receive an email and official termination paperwork by the end of the day.”
Panic squeezed my lungs at the prospect of losing my job, but I also detected a kernel of something else.
Anger.
Meredith could make all the excuses she wanted, but we both know she’d been dying to fire me for years. She was part of the old guard who didn’t like the changes bloggers were bringing to the industry, and she took out her resentment on me.
Maybe if you treated your employees better, I’d be more enthusiastic. Maybe if you weren’t so insecure, you’d see how my blog could help the magazine, not hurt it. On that note, you should check out the skin tone guide I posted last week because the color of your top does nothing for your complexion.
The uncharacteristic slew of insults rushed to the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them before they spilled out and got me blacklisted in the industry.
All I wanted was to work in fashion and be close to Maura. That was why I’d stayed in the city and got a job at D.C. Style despite my parents’ insistence that I find a job “more befitting an Alonso.”
I gave up a lot of things for other people, but my dream wouldn’t be one of them…unless it was out of my hands, and I got fired.
“I understand.” I forced a smile that matched the vise wrapped around my chest in tightness.
“Have your things cleared out by this afternoon,” Meredith added without looking up from her computer. “There are boxes waiting for you at your desk.”
Humiliation washed over my skin as I exited her office and walked to my desk. Everyone knew I’d been fired. Some of them shot me pitying glances; others didn’t hide their smirks.
But none of their reactions compared to what my family’s would be once I told them what happened. They already disapproved of me “wasting” my Thayer University degree on a fashion career. If they found out I’d been fired…
My hands shook before I caught myself and steadied them. I refused to give my coworkers the joy of seeing me sweat as I picked up my boxes and swept out of the office with as much dignity as I could muster.
Everything will be fine. Everything is fine.
My Uber ride home was a blur. I couldn’t stop picturing my parents’ faces when they find out what happened. The disappointment, judgment, and, worse, the silent I told you so’s that would undoubtedly make up half our conversation.
I told you working at a fashion magazine isn’t sustainable.
I told you to stop spending so much time on your blog. It’s a hobby, not a job.
I told you to do something more meaningful with your degree. Become an environmental lawyer like your mom, or at least work for a respectable newspaper.
And that was only one consequence of my firing.
I hadn’t even thought about the impact on my finances or my ability to find another job.
Pressure ballooned in my chest, but I managed to make it back to my apartment before I collapsed.
The cardboard boxes containing my office desk items landed next to me with a thud as I sank onto the living room floor and closed my eyes.
Everything is fine.
Everything is fine.
Everything is fine.
The silent mantra succeeded in calming my shallow breaths.
It wasn’t the end of the world. People got fired every day, and I still had money coming in from my blog and brand collaborations.
Plus, I could sell some of my wardrobe for extra cash. The money I’d receive from that would be pitiful, even for designer items, but it was better than nothing.
Worst came to worst, I could agree to some high-paying partnerships I’d turned down in the past.
I refused to collaborate with brands whose products I didn’t genuinely love, which drove Brady nuts because I was so picky about the clothes I wore and the products I used. It significantly hindered my earning potential, but I would rather earn less and be genuine than shill something I didn’t believe in for a quick check.
Of course, that’d been when I had a full-time salary to supplement my side business.
Everything is fine.
Everything is fine.
Everything is—
The familiar sound of my ringtone dragged me out of my thoughts before I slipped too far down my spiral.
I forced my eyes open and checked the screen.
Brady.
I was tempted to let it go to voicemail, but maybe he had an update on one of my pending collaborations. I would agree to anything paid right now.
Well, almost anything.
“Hello?” My voice came out scratchy and hoarse, but at least I wasn’t crying.
“How’d it go?” A car honked in the background, nearly drowning out Brady’s voice. “You ignored all my calls! Give me the deets, ASAP.”
A migraine blossomed behind my temple. “How did what go?”
“Delamonte.” The duh was implied. “A little birdie confirmed the dinner was an audition, so tell me. Do they love you or do they love you?”
The reminder of Delamonte did nothing to improve my mood. “They love me. Just not as much as Raya.”
No matter what Christian said, I was convinced the Delamonte deal was a lost cause. If I couldn’t keep my job at a small-market magazine, how could I be the ambassador for one of the world’s leading fashion brands?
It technically wasn’t a direct correlation, but in my shock-numbed, panicked mind it was.
A short pause followed my statement before Brady exploded. “Are you shitting me? Did you see the boots Raya wore in her latest post? Talk about tacky. That’s not Delamonte’s style at all. You are Delamonte! Your aesthetic is so fucking perfect for them, it’s like they…it’s like they created you in their super-secret lab. Or something.”
“Yes, well, Raya has more followers than me, and she has Adam. It’s like a two-in-one deal.”
I hated wallowing in self-pity, but once I got started, I couldn’t stop.
I’d been trying to reach a million followers for years, and Raya got it done in less than two posting about her new boyfriend and using the tips I gave her.
I didn’t mind sharing what I knew. Life, for the most part, wasn’t a competition. But I would be lying if I said that knowledge didn’t sting a bit.
“She’s only growing so fast because of Adam and vice versa,” Brady grumbled. “I hate to say it, but influencer couples are what’s hot right now. You rarely see individual influencers skyrocket like that. People love following other people’s love lives. It’s sick.”
I mustered a dry laugh. “Too bad I’m not part of a couple.”
D.C.’s dating pool was, for lack of a better word, dismal.
Then again, I no longer had a job taking up my time, so there was that.
I’d tell Brady about D.C. Style after I had time to process it myself. Talking about it would make it real, and I could use a little fantasy right now.
He was so quiet I thought the line cut off because Brady was never quiet. A quick check told me that wasn’t the case. I was about to prompt him again when he finally spoke.
“No, but you could be…” he said slowly.
My migraine intensified. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you getting a boyfriend. Think about it.” His voice pitched higher with excitement. “Your followers have never seen you date someone. You don’t date, right? Imagine if you did. They’d go crazy! And look at all the couple content that’s going viral. People eat that shit up. You’ll be at a million followers in no time! If you hit that milestone, Delamonte will notice. Rumor has it they won’t make a final decision for another few weeks. Trust me. They already love you—I know they do. You just gotta give them a little extra push.”
My jaw unhinged.
“Are you joking? I’m not going to string someone along and date them just so I can get more followers and a brand campaign!”
“Then be honest. Tell them the truth up front. Find a fake boyfriend. Someone who’ll also have something to gain from this.”
“Another influencer?” I winced at the prospect.
Not that it mattered because there was no way I would do what Brady was suggesting. The idea that I had to get a boyfriend to be deemed “interesting” made my skin crawl.
We’d progressed from the days when women couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without their husband’s approval, but the sad truth was, our value was still tied to our ability to “land” a partner, at least in society’s eyes.
The number of times people asked me why I didn’t have a boyfriend yet was proof of that. Like my being single was a problem I needed to solve instead of a choice I’d made. Like my lack of a partner somehow meant I was lacking somehow.
I didn’t have anything against dating. I was happy for my friends who’d found their One, and I’d be open to a relationship if I met the right person.
But I was pretty sure the right person wouldn’t result from a ruse to get more social media followers and further my career.
“Maybe another influencer,” Brady said thoughtfully. “Or someone who’ll benefit from having a beautiful woman on their arm.”
My stomach turned.
“You make it sound so sleazy. No way.” I shook my head. “I don’t have the time or energy for a real or fake relationship.”
“Stella, I’m telling you this as your friend and manager.” His voice was sterner than I’d ever heard it. “You want the Delamonte deal? You want a million followers? You want to show Raya and all the girls out there dying to see you fail that you still have what it takes to stay on top? Then get a boyfriend.”
Brady’s words ran through my mind long after I hung up.
It was the twenty-first century. I shouldn’t have to date someone to stay relevant.
But as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. There was a reason celebrities always magically entered relationships before a big album drop or movie premiere, and why unmarried politicians rarely won campaigns.
I rubbed my temple.
The idea of a fake boyfriend seemed absurd, but was it that absurd?
If movie stars could “date” someone for publicity, so could I. That I wasn’t a celebrity was irrelevant; the principle was the same.
I can’t believe I’m considering this.
I pulled up my Instagram and stared at the number at the top of my profile.
899K. I’d been stuck there for over a year, and it reminded me of where I was going in life—nowhere. Same city, same routine day in and day out.
The lure of a million followers and what it represented dangled in front of me like a sparkling diamond.
Validation. Opportunity. Success.
If I just reach and stretch…
The 899K stared back at me, taunting me.
I knew better than to derive value from my follower count, but that number impacted my income and livelihood.
Maybe it was ego.
Maybe I wanted to prove to everyone, including myself, that the blood, sweat, and tears I’d poured into growing the account hadn’t been in vain.
Or maybe Brady was right, and I needed to shake things up.
Whatever it was, it compelled me enough to exit out of the app and into my contacts list.
I stared at the list of names, my eyes instinctively homing in on the male ones.
I can’t believe I’m considering this.
But I had no job and nothing to lose…except my integrity.
Unfortunately, integrity didn’t pay the bills, and it wasn’t like I was murdering or stealing. It would just be a little white lie to sell the show that was my online presence.
My teeth dug into my bottom lip.
Then, before I could second guess myself, I called the first name that looked good.
“Hey Trent, it’s Stella. I know, it’s been a long time, but I have a question for you…”
