Page 7 of Forty, Flirty & Fired

I have exactly four thoughts:

1. This suit is Armani. And dry clean only. Because of course it is.

2. That champagne probably costs more than my first car. Which, granted, was a very cheap car, but still.

3. Mackenzie Gallo has surprisingly good balance in those heels. And…

4. Her eyes are doing this fascinating thing where they can't decide if they're horrified or delighted. It's... annoyingly attractive.

The champagne hits me first – a surprisingly warm cascade of extremely expensive bubbles that makes my suit make a sound I'm pretty sure Armani never intended. Then the indomitable Ms. Gallo crashes into my chest, and the warm bubbly rushes down the front of my chest.

Fun fact: Dom Pérignon has notes of white flowers, citrus, and pure ‘your suit is forever fucked’ undertones.

"Mr. Drake!" She pushes back, looking mortified in a way that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I am so sorry. How clumsy of me.”

I take out my pocket square from my tux and wipe the front of my lapels. “Clumsy, huh? Not exactly the word I’d used. ‘Fucked up’ feels more fitting.”

Her brown eyes flash as I lift my gaze to meet hers. “Almost as fucked-up as firing an entire leadership team without considering the impact on developer retention?” she asks.

I blink. “Almost.”

Around us, the crowd has gone silent. I swear I hear someone whisper, "Oh snap!"

"You know," she continues, placing a silk scarf from her purse towards my very really soaked shirt front, "studies show that aggressive acquisition strategies like yours lead to anaverage seventy percent loss in senior talent within the first year. But you probably knew that, right? Just like you probably knew that Innovatech's retention rates under my integration program were eighty-five percent better than industry standard."

Suddenly, I can’t move. The feel of Mackenzie Gallo’s fingers wiping a cherry-scented scarf across my collarbone is short-circuiting my brain.

And I’m not the only one rendered speechless by the fired exec’s boldness.

Gerald looks like he's about to swallow his martini olive whole. Emma appears to be having several small strokes in succession.

And all I can think is: She's right.

She's absolutely, irritatingly, champagne-throwingly right.

"Of course," Mackenzie pats my chest, "that's probably not as important as 'streamlined integration' and 'synergistic growth.' Tell me, how's that working out for your mobile development team?"

I wait for the rage to hit me. For my ears to turn red. For my neck to burn hotly.

But it doesn’t happen. Nothing does.

Because I'm not angry.

I'm impressed. And possibly a little concussed from the sheer audacity of it all.

Because in less than thirty seconds, Mackenzie Gallo has managed to do what I've been trying to do all day: Make my board face the reality of our situation. And she did it with nothing but a bottle of champagne, publicly available statistics, and what I'm beginning to suspect is a genetic predisposition for dramatic timing.

"Actually, Ms. Gallo," I hear myself say, champagne dripping from my chin, "I'd love to hear more about your thoughts on our integration strategy."

A beat passes, then two.

"What?" She blinks, at last.

I grin. I suspect this isn't how her revenge fantasy played out in her head.

"Over dinner, perhaps? Or..." I glance down at my ruined suit. "Given the circumstances, maybe we should start with coffee. Preferably something less... projectile."

"I... I’m still confused…?”

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