Brothers of Paradise Series

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.Nôvel/Dr(a)ma.Org - Content owner.

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.

Henry

“Mr. Marchand, your one o’clock is going to be fifteen minutes late. Should I push your later meetings?”

I press the intercom 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.