Page 6 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

I check my watch. Eight-fifteen. The champagne toast is at nine, followed by my speech about "unified vision" and "synergistic growth" – all the buzzwords that mean nothing when you're bleeding talent faster than a startup burning through venture capital.

"Alex!" A voice cuts through my thoughts. Emma Martinez, my executive assistant, is making her way through the crowd with the kind of determined expression that usually means trouble. "We have a problem."

"Just one? Must be a slow night."

"The latest numbers from HR just came in." She glances at the board members hovering nearby and lowers her voice. "We're looking at another wave of resignations tomorrow. The entire mobile development team from Innovatech is planning to walk."

Awesome.

"If you'll excuse me," I nod to the board members. "Duty calls."

Emma follows me to a quieter corner near the champagne towers that some overenthusiastic event planner thought would add "elegance" to the evening. Because nothing says class like precariously balanced glassware.

"Talk to me."

"It's not just Innovatech anymore." Emma pulls out her tablet. "Word's getting around. Three senior engineers from StormTech pulled their acceptance letters this morning. The message boards are calling us 'The Place Good Ideas Go to Die.'"

I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose. The PR nightmare is exactly why I'd wanted to keep Mac Gallo. Her integration methods weren't just successful – they were revolutionary. Eighty-five percent better than industry standard. The kind of numbers that make CEOs salivate.

But no. The board wanted quick wins, clean cuts. And truthfully, so did I.

None of us—least of all me—wanted that "touchy-feely culture stuff” when Drake Enterprises absorbed Innovatech.

But the backlash might be more than we can bear.

"What about the Davidson account?"

"They're worried. All this turnover isn't inspiring confidence in our ability to—" Emma freezes, her eyes fixing on something over my shoulder. "Um, Alex?"

"What?"

"Isn't that the woman you fired today?"

I turn, and there she is. Mackenzie Gallo, looking significantly more polished than she had this afternoon, stalkingthrough my charity gala like a woman on a mission. The red power suit she'd been wearing earlier has replaced—swapped out with some silky emerald number that shows off curves I wasn’t aware Ms. Gallo had.

I swallow, my gaze sweeping across her curly up-do down to the stilettos that look like they can cut a man where he stands.

"Should I call security?" Emma whispers.

"Not yet." I find myself oddly fascinated. It's like watching a nature documentary about predators, except instead of a lioness stalking her prey, it's an angry tech executive with smooth shoulders and curvy hips. "Let's see where this goes."

"Alex, she looks ready to commit murder."

"With what weapon? Her severance package?"

"How about that bottle of Dom she just picked up?"

Ah. Well. That could be problematic.

I watch as Mackenzie Gallo snags a bottle of Dom Pérignon from a passing waiter with the smooth expertise of someone who's definitely done this before. The same bottle I specifically ordered because Gerald has expensive taste and a tendency to critique my event planning. The irony is not lost on me.

"Now can I call security?"

"Hold on." Something about her expression makes me pause. It's not blind rage. It's calculation. The same look she probably had when she was engineering those successful integrations that my board so casually dismissed. Like a chess player who's about to checkmate you with a move involving a queen and very expensive champagne.

What I don't expect is for the universe to choose this exact moment to demonstrate its impeccable sense of comedic timing.

It happens in slow motion, like I'm in The Matrix, except instead of dodging bullets, I'm watching a very angry brunette perform an interpretive dance with an $1200 bottle of champagne. A waiter backs into her path with a loaded tray. Macstumbles. The champagne bottle becomes an impromptu aerial performance artist.

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