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Niamh Roy was screwed.
It was a Monday morning that she'd walked into her office. She'd been on a deserved week-long vacation, and it was officially her first day back in the office. Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she entered the atrium; there was a morning briefing to get to, and she was impatient.
Niamh entered an empty room. Odd. Had something happened? Was the meeting rescheduled? The only person in the room was her partner, James Allen. She wasn't surprised; he probably just wanted to fill her in on what'd happened. Why else would she be worried?
In the years since its creation, Antigone magazine has boomed. The bad-die-young attitude had polarized critics, and Niamh and James had been the brains behind the tabloid. What started as a small project between the two friends had led to a business built on a devil-may-care attitude. And what a perfect match they were.
When she first announced her ideas, her family was understandably concerned. Neevy, as she was known, wasn't the type of person to do something like this. Her father had gotten mad. "You will fail, and you will be sorry when you cry at my feet." And yes, Logan Roy tried to sabotage his daughter. When she found willing investors, he tried to dissuade them. He wasn't going to let anyone, much less his "whore house" daughter, jump into the media pool.
Then James Allen walked into her life. He was the perfect salesman, someone who got her ideas and spun them into realities. Sure, he might've been too old to cut into the scene. To the haut monde of New York City, too many skeletons were shaking in his closet. However, he was the perfect right-hand man for Niamh. They were good to each other.
Niamh reflected on this as she walked up to James. "Jim! It's good to be back. Get out of my seat."
He sighed. "We have a lot to discuss."
"What happened? Did you screw up that badly?" she joked as she stood there. An unease filled her from head to toe as she looked at him.
"Well, the deal is officially finished. The SEC has approved the acquisition." He stood up, grabbing a copy of the magazine. "We are officially a Waystar Royco imprint."
"Congrats!" Secretly, Niamh was pissed. No one had told her anything about the approval. She'd been gone for one week, and already shit was not going her way. But if it was all for the good of Antigone, count her in. "You could've called me, y'know. No need for surprise and all that shit. "
No response. "I mean, we've been at this for a while now. Nothing surprises me much anymore."
"Good." James' voice cut clear into the room. "Then you won't be surprised. "
"At what?" Niamh started laughing nervously. "They replaced the editors with Truman Capote's Swans? What a nightmare!"
"Almost. You're fired."
The words hit her like a car. "What? You're joking, right? You better be joking."
"Nope. The board decided you're a liability to this company. And now you're gone."
"The board?" Niamh paced around the room. "So you all had a little meeting. You decided, hey, why not kick our editor? It's not like she put her fucking blood and sweat into this company!"
"C'mon Niamh, you know I didn't want you to leave. Listen, you'll stick around until we find a replaceme-"
"Oh, so now it's never fucking you, is it? Because you can't do shit!" She looked down and swiveled around. "I think I'm gonna head out for the day. I'm done here."
She practically sprinted out of the room, rushing out onto the bustling street. The morning rush was in full swing, and she jostled her way to her car. As she shut the door and told the driver to take her home, she pondered. Everyone was in her fucking way. She decided on one thing at that moment.
If no one wanted her in New York, then fine. She was leaving for good.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Took me a year to remember I had this but thanks for sticking around y'all!
