F.I.R.E.D

Harley 

(Phone rings)

Where is it?

A groan rumbles from my throat, so dry and hoarse that it feels like I swallowed sandpaper. My head pulses with the dull ache of last night's poor decisions, and the relentless ringing only makes it worse. Squinting against the dim morning light, I blindly tap the bed, fumbling for the source of the noise. My phone. My fingers finally close around the device, and I force my eyes open just enough to make out the screen. A landline number. A client.

Great.

Clearing my throat, I swipe to answer, praying they don't hear the aftermath of last night in my voice.

"Hello?" I say, attempting to sound as put-together as possible.

"Good day, Ms. Moore?" The caller's voice is sharp, female.

"Yes?"

"Oh, great. This is Getty, Mr. Stanford's secretary. I'm calling regarding the follow-up on my boss being unfairly accused of inappropriate conduct with a coworker. When can you have it sorted out? This nonsense is ruining our reputation, and that damn brat is demanding money."

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

"Oh, I remember you," I begin, sighing internally.

"You do? Good. Then let's get this resolved quickly. She must not get a single dime—my boss is innocent."

Wow. What a way to wake up from a hangover.

"Ms. Getty—"

"Mrs., actually. Soon-to-be married. The boss and I made it official, which is why we need this case closed."

I roll my eyes. "Alright, listen. When I said I remember you, I meant I remember a woman shamelessly dismissing another's concerns to please her boss. And I clearly remember rejecting your case. What do you want from me now? Actually, never mind. I don't work at that firm anymore, so kindly stop calling me. Goodbye."

I end the call with a sigh, my temples throbbing in protest.

Argh. What a painful way to wake up.

Shifting in my bed, I hear the rustling of my white covers. My gaze flicks to the floor—pillows scattered everywhere, some near the door, others in front of the mirror. Right. Rebecca and Mandy dragged me home last night. We fought on the way, we fought inside, and we even fought over the color of my walls. They're beige, but in my drunken state, they looked orange, and for some reason, that was a problem.

I shake my head. I am a lot of work when I'm drunk.

Just as I let my body sink back into the mattress, another buzzing sound shatters the silence. I groan, picking up my phone instinctively, ready to throw a few words at Getty. She's been relentless, calling and begging me to take the case for weeks. She never stops at one call.

"Ms. Getty, this is harassment under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act. I told you—I was fired. Should I spell that out for you? F-I-R-E-D. Now let me suffer in peace. My head feels like it's about to split. Call the firm if you need help."

Silence.

And then, the slow, measured sound of breathing.

A heavy weight settles in my gut.

I look at my phone screen.

Oh, shit.

Scrambling to sit upright, I push back stray strands of hair and clear my throat. "Dad."

The sleep, the drowsiness, the hangover—they all disappear in an instant. I am fucked.

"You got fired? What did you do?" His voice is sharp, already climbing in anger.

"I—I—uh," I stammer. This is what he does to me. This is what he's always done to me.

"You did something, didn't you? There's no way Kimberly would fire you without reason. What was it? Did you lose a case? Get your client arrested? Did you break the law?" His voice rises with each question. "Lord, Harley, if you did, I won't be bailing you out! Why can't you be more responsible? The company doesn't need this kind of embarrassment right now, and yet here you are—fired and drunk! What on earth is wrong with you?"

"No, Dad, I—"

"Hendrick, stop it. You're being too hard on her," my mother interjects, her voice firm but weary.

"No, Elena. This is your fault too. You coddle her. You let her do whatever she pleases. And now look at her—an unemployed drunkard!"

Ouch.

"That only happened once," I mutter, my voice steady but the weight of the accusation hanging in the air. I am not a drunkard.

"What? Are you talking back to me?" His voice spikes, the anger is clear in his tone.

I freeze, the words dying in my throat as the familiar tension tightens around my chest. My breath catches. "No... sorry, Dad," I whisper, the apology more out of instinct than conviction.

"No," he snaps, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife, "I'm the one who's sorry. Having a daughter like you is only adding to my problems."

His words land like a punch. I want to say something, anything to defend myself, but the sting of his disappointment locks me in place.

"Hendrick—"

"No, Elena, look at her now—old, single, and unemployed—while her younger sister is thriving. Maybe we shouldn't have let her move to that city!" My dad's voice boomed through the phone. Here it goes again. They always ended up fighting about this.

I remained silent.

More shuffling. Then a sigh.

"You talk to her," he mutters, and then my mother's voice takes over.

"Harley, honey? How are you? I'm so sorry about your job."

"Mom." My voice cracks, but I push past it. "Thanks. It's fine."

"What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

A pause. "Alright. About your father—he's under a lot of stress, sweetheart. He doesn't mean half the things he says. If you could just understand him a little, maybe you two could get along better… Could you try? For me?"

A lump forms in my throat.

I swallow it down. "Yes, Mom. I understand. I'll try harder."

She sighs, and for a moment, we sit in silence.

"Harley..."

"Mom," I cut in, clearing my throat. "Why did you call?"

"Oh, right. Your father's business partners requested a dinner meeting, and they asked for the whole family to attend. Can you make it?"

"Why wouldn't she?" My father's voice cuts through in the background. "She's unemployed, wasting time in New York. She must come home."

"Hendrick!"

"Don't worry, I'll be there. When is it?" I ask, ignoring the sting in my chest.

"Tomorrow. We booked you a flight for tonight."

"What?"

"Your flight is at 7 p.m. Don't be late," my mother says, softer now.

"And," my father adds, "you'll be traveling with the client. Show some manners if you still have any left after living in that wretched city."

The line goes dead.

I sit there, staring at my phone, my pulse drumming in my ears.

My father's business. His client.

And I have to travel with them.

My stomach twists. This is going to be a disaster.

And I have no way out.