by Olivia Hayle
Contents
Title Page
Preface
Epigraph
1. Faye
2. Henry
3. Faye
4. Faye
5. Henry
6. Faye
7. Henry
8. Faye
9. Henry
10. Faye
11. Henry
12. Faye
13. Henry
14. Faye
15. Henry
16. Faye
17. Henry
18. Faye
19. Faye
20. Henry
21. Faye
22. Faye
23. Henry
24. Faye
25. Faye
26. Henry
27. Faye
28. Henry
29. Faye
30. Faye
Epilogue
ROGUE
Prologue
Chapter 1
About Olivia
Copyright © 2020 Olivia Hayle
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be distributed or transmitted without the prior consent of the publisher, except in case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.
All characters and events depicted in this book are entirely fictitious. Any similarity to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and explicit scenes, and is intended for mature readers.
Cover by by Sarah Armitage Design
Edited by Stephanie Parent
www.oliviahayle.com
Preface
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Epigraph
“There’s a charm about the forbidden that
makes it unspeakably desirable.”
— Mark Twain
1
Faye
What do you do if you’re a broke architect who’s been wrongfully terminated from your job? Throw in a large amount of student debt for good measure, an even bigger dose of ambition, and the humiliation of being turned down by most of the major architect firms in New York.
The answer? You drown your sorrows in wine.
My best friend comes over and we open a bottle of white. Technically, we open two, but it’s the light and bubbly kind of wine, so it only counts half as much.
“To my latest rejection letter,” I say, and hold up my glass for a toast.
Jessie holds up her own. “At least you’re out of Elliot Ferris’s office. You could still have to work for that jackass, Faye.”
“Yes, and I’d be getting paid,” I say sadly. “But you’re right. Here’s to being broke—but at least there’s no one ogling my ass!”
“To no ass ogling!”
We toast, and giggle, and descend into the kind of madness we’ve always gotten into. Silly and funny and entirely harmless.
Well.
At least it starts harmless.
But then Jessie leaves, and I open my laptop for a little bit of midnight fun. Maybe watch my favorite YouTuber break down yet another shopping haul, or a tutorial for braids so intricate I know I’d never manage to succeed on my own. Perhaps do a spot of drunk online shopping.
The job searching website pops up—I’d left it open. There’s a new ad, posted in the day since I last checked.
Marchand & Rykers is the firm name. They’re a small, boutique architect firm uptown, one I’ve only heard about but never encountered. It’s not one of the big players, but they’re well-known for taking on expensive, prestige projects. It’s also a firm that hasn’t rejected me yet.
My heart sinks as I read the job description. It’s not even a position as an architect. Assistant. They’re hiring an assistant to the executive partner.
It involves all the usual sort of stuff—event managing, calendar work, email and phone. Damn. This city is killing me, not to mention this profession. Five years I’d spent with Elliot Ferris, and in the end, what did I gain?
Nothing. No recommendation letter, no promotion—nada. Zilch.
Is assistant the best I can do now? Have I really sunk that low?
Drunk anger rises up in me as I press the giant blue button that says “apply.” I have my CV ready, so it doesn’t take long to attach it and finalize my application.
Please submit a cover letter. Hah. As if they’ll hire me anyway!
An idea forms in my mind. It’s so silly that for a moment all I can do is grin at the empty document on my screen. Yes. Why not give them a piece of my mind too? It’s not like I’m realistically going to get this job. I have no background as an assistant and not a single recommendation to my name. I’m twenty-seven years old and live in a studio apartment in Brooklyn.
I start to write. Dear… Damn it. Who’s the head of the firm? A quick internet search pulls up the name. Henry Marchand. Probably a mean old bastard, with a pudgy stomach and graying hair. Another Elliot Ferris, with his clawing hands and sickly-sweet smile. Ugh. They’re the elitist dragons guarding the building industry in New York, making it impossible to gain a foothold as a young female architect. Assholes.
Dear Mr. Marchand (what kind of fancy-pants name is that?), I start typing.
You’re not going to hire me, you old stooge, and let me list the reasons why. Intrigued? You should be. I’m about to tell you everything that’s wrong with this industry. You’re welcome.
I wake up with a pounding headache and a mouth as dry as the Sahara. My sheets are stuck to my cheek, and I can tell without touching it that my hair is a complete mess.
Sunlight streams in through my window. By the looks of it, it’s late already.
“Damn,” I murmur to no one and sit up, putting a hand to my forehead. I knew drinking with Jessie had been a bad idea, but then I’d received the letter of rejection from Ford & Sons…
God. That made it a total of six rejections. All major architect firms in New York had rejected me. Me. And I’d been valedictorian of my class at university. Sure, it wasn’t Ivy League, but it had been the best I’d been able to afford on my scholarship and loans.
I stand on wobbly legs and make it out to the kitchen to grab a glass of cold water. I glance over at the potted palm tree in the corner. “Looks like we might have to go back to Ohio if this continues, buddy,” I tell it.
The tree looks morosely back at me. The leaves are turning brown at the edges, despite my tender loving care. I’ve killed every plant I’ve ever bought, but I’m determined that this one won’t suffer the same tragic fate.
“Hang in there,” I tell him. “I’ll find us something. I know you’ll feel better when I have a job.”
Not to mention, so will I.
I take a seat at my kitchen table and open my laptop. There’s a new email in my inbox.
Automatic: Thank you for your application!
I frown and lean in closer. I didn’t apply for anything.
Marchand & Rykers has received your application. We will be in touch as soon as possible regarding—
No. No, no, no, no, no. There was no way.
That was a joke. A drunken, stupid little joke, just to amuse myself.
I open the documents that I sent in, one by one.
My heart is pounding when I open the cover letter—the one I vaguely remember typing in drunken, self-righteous anger.
Dear God. I actually sent it.
2
Henry
“Mr. Marchand, your one o’clock is going to be fifteen minutes late. Should I push your later meetings?”
I press the i
ntercom button to speak with my assistant harder than strictly necessary. When did being on time become a thing of the past?
“No, I’ll cut his meeting short.” If you’re late, you’re late, and you pay the consequences.
My assistant chirps back. “Would you like me to order lunch?”
“Yes. The regular.”
“Will do.”
She’s effective. Always on time. Knowledgeable.
And working her last week. The decision to leave had been hers, but it still left me in the same awful position I always seemed to find myself in. Looking for another assistant. Somehow, they never seemed to last, even when they were terrific. I’m not a terrible boss, either. Demanding, perhaps. Exacting. But not terrible.
I dial Melissa in Human Resources. The ad for a new personal assistant went live just yesterday, but patience is a virtue I don’t possess.
“Mr. Marchand?”
“Have you received any applicants for the new position?”
“Yes,” she says, “a handful. But the ad hasn’t even been live for twenty-four hours yet. I’m expecting more.”
“Send them over.”
Brief hesitation. “I haven’t vetted them yet. Would you like me to send you a selection? I could go through them in a few hours’ time.”
“No, send the ones we’ve already received.”
She’s perplexed, that’s clear, but she doesn’t argue. “They’ll be in your inbox shortly.”
Perfect. Something productive to do during the fifteen minutes I’m now forced to wait for one of my head architects.
Melissa’s email appears. Seven applicants are included, each in individual files with all their supporting documentation. Excellent. I scroll through the list and open the first one. Faye Alvarez. It’s an unusual name.
Her CV is excellent. Valedictorian. A bachelor’s degree in architecture. Worked five years at Elliot Ferris. I grit my teeth at the name—he is no friend of mine—but his firm is undoubtedly successful.
I click open her cover letter and can’t believe my eyes.
Dear Mr. Marchand (what kind of fancy-pants name is that?):
You’re not going to hire me, you old stooge, and let me list the reasons why. Intrigued? You should be. I’m about to tell you everything that’s wrong with this industry. You’re welcome.
Firstly, I don’t have any professional recommendations. That’s not because I didn’t work somewhere nice—because I did—but because my former boss is a lecherous creep. Terribly, terribly lecherous. That’s a good word. Well, it’s a bad word, but it’s forceful. He refuses to give me a recommendation because we had a so-called difference of opinion. I’ll give you a clue: I was in the right. So here I am, without a recommendation. It’s not because I’m not good at my job. It’s because I was too good. I’m the best damn architect you’ll ever see.
But you won’t believe me when I say it, because you need proof, and I can’t supply it. It’s a catch-22. That’s another good term, a reference to a literary classic. As you can tell from this beautifully written letter, I am very highly educated. But you won’t hire me anyway, because I didn’t go to an Ivy League college. I’m sure you did, and all the other architects at your firm. You probably only hire other Ivy alumni. An unspoken rule, right? I know how New York architect firms work. Well, I couldn’t afford to. WASN’T MY FAULT!
Second, I don’t look like an architect. I’m putting it bluntly here because why not? That’s the truth of it. I’ve been told I’m “a distraction in the workplace.” Too curvy, too sensual, too exotic, whatever that means, I’ve heard it all. Just because my dad was from Mexico doesn’t mean I’m some sort of dish to be sampled. But that’s what all the higher-ups see. They don’t see my perfectly executed calculations; they just see my cleavage. Which I usually try to cover up. Again, NOT MY FAULT!
Do you want to know the final reason why you won’t possibly consider hiring me, or even calling me for an interview? I don’t have any previous experience as an assistant, despite being grossly overqualified for the position you’re hiring for. I’m stooping to the level of assistant, and I won’t even get that. But I’m also underqualified to be an architect at your prestigious firm, dear sir, because of the previous reasons I listed. So I’m fucked either way.
This industry is sexist, elitist, and protectionist. I thought I could make it anyway, but it seems like I can’t. Reject me and you’ll help confirm my thesis. Thanks in advance.
Sincerely,
Faye Alvarez.
I read it once.
Then I read it again.
And by the end, I’m grinning. This woman is angry. More than that—she’s furious. Not once have I ever been called an old stooge, and certainly not by someone I’ve never met. The part that makes me smile the most is the ending. She signed her cover letter with sincerely, after just having used the word fucked. Impossible.
Insane.
I look at her CV again.
Honestly, she has stellar credentials. Graduated summa cum laude from a mid-tier school. Interned at one of the big firms before landing a job as a junior architect. She was a part of the Century Dome project.
Hmm. Impressive structure, that one. I’d been there at the opening.
She’s right, though. She’s definitely overqualified to be an assistant. At the same time… she’d need very little training on the architecture part of it. She’d understand all my notes right away. The systems, the projects… sure, she might need to learn how to handle a calendar, but that’s the easy part. The building and development are the hard part, and she already has that down pat.
I re-read her letter.
It makes me smile again. That’s a good word. Well, no, it’s a bad word. This woman sounds half off her rails, and half brilliant, and damn if it isn’t the first applicant who’s actually stood out to me. I can’t hire her—of course I can’t. But there’s no harm in calling her in for an interview and proving her last prediction wrong. Marchand & Rykers isn’t elitist or sexist. And if the letter is any indication, the call might just be the most fun I’ve had in months.
Besides, her first paragraph is unsettling. Old Elliot Ferris not giving her a recommendation because of what she’s hinting…
I dial the number she listed at the top of her CV.
A breathless voice picks up after the second ring. It’s soft and sure. “Faye Alvarez speaking?”
“I’m Mr. Marchand from Marchand & Rykers.”
There’s absolute silence on the other line.
“The old stooge,” I add, always helpful.
“Hello,” she breathes. “God, I’m very embarrassed about that letter.”
“You are? I didn’t get that from the text itself.”
“No, well, I wasn’t exactly in my right mind when I sent that.”
“Are you telling me you applied to work at my firm while under the influence?”
“Maybe,” she says. “The answer depends on whether it will exonerate me or not.”
“Exonerate,” I repeat. “That’s another objectively good word, wouldn’t you say?”
There’s a distinctively feminine groan on the other end. “I’m very sorry about that letter.”
“I understand that you are,” I say, “but I’m not. It was very amusing.”
Another groan. “Oh, I’m sure. Has it been passed around the office yet? Taped to the water cooler?”
“Not yet, but I have big plans for it,” I say gravely. “I’m thinking of turning it into an email forward.”
“You wouldn’t,” she breathes, and I can’t help but smile at the outrage in her voice. God, this woman is fun to needle.
“I won’t, not if you come in for an interview.”
The silence on the other side is complete.
“Miss Alvarez? I’m a busy man.”
“You genuinely want me to interview for the position?” This time, her voice is dry. “I can’t for the life of me understand why.”
“I told you. Your a
pplication was very amusing. Besides, you have excellent qualifications. Can you make it to Marchand & Rykers tomorrow at…” I glance at my calendar. “Nine a.m.?”
“I can, yes.”
“Until tomorrow, then, Miss Alvarez. And don’t be late.”
“Thank you.”
“Goodbye, now.”
“Bye.”
I hang up and spend another five minutes perusing her cover letter again.
It’s ridiculous.
Playing along with it is decidedly stupid, too. But it’s also a meeting I’m looking forward to, and it’s been a long time since that’s been the case.
3
Faye
The interview has to be a joke.
No one in their right mind would hire someone based on the terrible mess of a letter I sent in. I know that—he surely knows it too. So what am I going in for? Amusement, probably. He wants to see what a ridiculous person he’s dealing with. Have himself a laugh, like he did over the phone.
I look at myself in the mirror again. Well, he’ll have no such luck.
It might only be a joke to him, but I’m not going to waste an opportunity to gain a tiny bit of credibility back. I look professional, from the black pumps to the slick ponytail. I’m wearing my most modest of suits—the pencil skirt goes to my knees, and my silk blouse is nearly covered by the matching blazer. I kept my makeup simple, too. Anything to downplay the features that I know men like this often prey on—or see as a mark against me.