thirty-three | sweet smell of freedom

THE OFFER PATTY HAD PLACED IN HER LAP WEIGHED HEAVILY ON HER MIND FOR THE NEXT WEEK AS THEY CONTINUED TO SECRETLY SEE EACH OTHER. He'd come over after training, spending the night for as many nights in a row as he could until he'd run out of fresh clothes in his locker. And then, he'd made the trek back down to the Gold Coast to fetch some. She liked to think of this week as ignorant bliss; where the consequences couldn't hurt them. As silly as it sounds, she felt like some rebellious teenager sneaking around with a boy her father disapproved of; if the media got a single picture of them together, the jig was up.

With all the distractions, the quality of her work had decreased (how was she supposed to give her all in these conditions, when Timothee would glare at her through his door all day). She still submitted everything she was supposed to—granted, an hour or two later then she was supposed to—but her words, now directed at the Dolphins of Redcliffe, did not pack the punch they used to. With the exception of think pieces surrounding Thomas Flegler and Herbie Farnworth, though, she rarely had a negative thing to say about either which she knew drove Timothee up the wall (she could practically hear his voice in her head, 'This is a gossip magazine!'). It was only inevitable that she would get an email inviting her for a meeting first thing in the morning.

Patty had spent the night and they'd woken up early to. . . enjoy each other before either had to go to their respective commitments. So, Dionne was glowing—she'd practically skipped into the office, making Korra peer over her computer screen in suspicion at her. "What's got you on cloud nine?" The graphic designer asked, raising her eyebrows. "New man?"

Dionne smirked as she entered her login. "Cannot conform or deny," she responded playfully, frowning at the calendar notification that appeared on her screen as soon as her profile loaded. "Ugh," she groaned. 

"What?" Korra asked, watching Dionne look over her shoulder at Timothee's office in dismay.

"I've been summoned," the brunette told her sarcastically, slowly standing up at her desk. "Pray for me," she added, pushing her chair in.

Korra snorted as she watched her go, taking very slow and small steps towards the glass door. Their boss, a late twenties man, sat up straight at his desk as he awaited her to enter. She saw Dionne's crack her knuckles before pressing her fist gently against the door a few times. "Enter," Timothee called out and she tentatively pulled the door open and let herself inside.

"Hey. . ." She greeted him awkwardly, flattening out the creases in her maxi skirt as she took a seat in front of him. The weight of his stare hung heavily on her as she waited for him to speak, tell her why she'd been summoned.

Looking down at some papers in front of him, he cleared his throat once before speaking. "Stanley," he acknowledged her, no emotion in his voice just genetic courteousness. "Do you know why I've called you in?"

Dionne shook her head slightly, folding and unfolding her legs awkwardly. "Erm, no," she admitted, although she had her suspicions.

He slid a stack of papers across the table towards her. "These are all the articles you've written in the last one," he told her, pausing for dramatic effect as she learnt forward to look—her most recent piece on Herbie Farnworth's collaboration with Budgey Smuglers on top of the stack. "All of which we've had to pull from the site for low engagement."

Her jaw went slack and her lips fell apart. "Oh. . ." She practically whispered, staring down at her lap.

"This time two months ago you were our top writer, bringing in the most clicks on to the website," he told her, stating information she already knew. "Now, people don't even bother to click the notification when your articles are published. Wanna know why?"

His question was most likely rhetorical but she couldn't help herself. "I'm sure you'll tell me," she replied, voice devoid of emotion.

Timothee's lips formed a tight, straight line as he glanced at her with an annoyed expression. "It's because they're boring now," he told her honestly, a biting edge to his tone. "Where's that gritty and passionate narrative voice you always wrote with?"

She shrugs. "Lack of inspiration? Writers block? I don't know."

"Dionne," he warned. "This is serious, I can't keep paying you to write shit I can't even publish to the website. Ever since you and Carrigan—"

"Do not go there," she snapped, eyes narrowed.

"Well, you've been putting in a really poor effort ever since him, Dionne," Timothee remarked, throwing his hands in the air like he was some sort of victim.

She looked up at him, hatred consuming her stare. "Don't speak about things you know nothing about," she seethed, Pattys words from the other morning filling her mind as she looked up her boss. He'd raised a valid point; did she want to stay in this environment when, as Timothee had so graciously pointed out, she wasn't even producing work she was proud to have her name attached to.

Timothee, with skepticism flickering across his face, stared at her across the desk. "You're still seeing him, aren't you?"

"Of course not," she lied. "You banned me, remember?"

"Don't twist it," he bit back, sitting up straighter to appear more intimidating. "You breached your contract by sleeping with him. I graciously decided to sweep it under the rug and not fire you, under the agreement you don't do it again."

Her nostrils flared at the condescension in his tone. Even when she was a rebellious teenager, her father had never tried to make her feel so small when he was dishing out punishments for sneaking out her window to attend parties. "Well maybe you should've fired me," she says before she even realises the words are tumbling out of her mouth.

Timothee freezes, shock omitting from him. "I beg your pardon?"

A surge of confidence came over her and she cleared her throat, voice a little louder this time. "You heard me," she said clearly. "Maybe you should've fired me."

"Watch yourself, Stanley," he warned, standing up but not moving from his spot behind the big wooden desk.

Matching him, she stood up in front of his chair. "Fire me or I quit, your choice," she said defiantly, arms crossed. "At least if I'm fired, you get the final word."

"Get the fuck out of my office, you skank," he roared, his voice echoing that it carried through the walls. People looked up from their desks outside, trying to peer in and know what was going on.

"Gladly," she replied, smirking as she tore open his door and made a beeline for her desk.

💌

💌 KARLA YAPS !

this chapter sucked but we all knew it was coming lol

safe to say, it's mostly fan service from her on out—you're welcome xoxo