Page 562 of Manhattan Bossholes

“We need to report—” Felicity began.

“Already done,” I said as I pushed send on the text. “I just messaged the building manager.”

“Oh, let me guess; you’re one of those ‘let me speak to the manager’ types, right? Lots of complaining until everything is exactly the way you like it. That tracks.”

I had to force myself to not grind my teeth. “I own the building. I’m on top of building maintenance issues to ensure my tenants remain happy. Even the ones who don’t deserve to be here.”

Felicity sputtered at me, unable to form words. Good. Maybe she’d finally stop insulting me.

She started pacing from one end of the elevator to the other with her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“I don’t like this.”

“You think I do, Fagin?” I countered.

The chimes on my phone kicked up until they started sounding like a snoozed alarm clock.

“Better text your clingy girlfriend back,” Felicity taunted.

I gave her a withering stare, trying to ignore the fact that her face looked pale. Was she nervous being alone with me in close quarters?

“Please,” I scoffed at her, refocusing on the torture device in my hand. “It’s work.”

I scanned the alerts. Our new marketing campaign, “#AskHer” was generating plenty of attention, but my stomach sank as I realized that it was for all the wrong reasons. The campaign was supposed to be playful, a way to encourage fence-sitting boyfriends to finally propose. Obviously, our goal was to generate positive press for a change, but someone in marketing hadn’t done their research.

Fuck. I clenched my hand in a fist as I kept reading.

The #AskHer hashtag belonged to Her Refuge, a charity for victims of domestic abuse. The awareness campaign encouraged people to gently probe for details with friends and family members who appeared to be in dangerous relationships and listed what to look for in domestic violence scenarios.

Veritique not only seemed clueless with our campaign, we looked outright insensitive.

“Aww, is bossman in trouble with his little lady?” Felicity asked in a baby voice.

I glanced up from my phone to scowl at her as I cranked out a scathing email to my team.

“Hold on, is everything okay?”

There was no mocking in her voice.

“No, it’s not,” I answered gruffly. “It’s not at all. Someone in marketing fucked up royally.”

I did a quarter turn to lean against the elevator wall as I tried to begin damage control.

“Marketing? Tell me what happened,” she said as she moved in front of me. “Maybe I can help.”

I was about to insist there was absolutely no way she could help me, but then I remembered the feedback about her from my team. They’d raved about Felicity Rhodes and come close to calling me out for cutting off her interview before it had even begun. Of course, no one dared say anything like that to my face, but the implication was there: I’d fucked up. And Veritique couldn’t afford any more fuck-ups.

I briefly outlined what was going on and tried to ignore the way her face shifted from disdain to disbelief.

“Oh, wow,” she breathed out once I finished. “That’s…that’s not good.”

I scowled at her. “Yeah, thanks. I know.”

She started pacing again, frowning with her eyebrows drawn down. “But it’s salvageable.”

“How? How in the world can we turn this around?”

Felicity held up her hand and ticked off her fingers, “First, acknowledge the mistake, then accept accountability⁠—”