“You need to leave,” he says decisively. “You asked me to come here.” I fold my arms, intentionally playing dumb. “Nice try, Bumpkin.” He flicks invisible dirt from his cashmere sweater, as if his presence here is dirty. “You’re fired, effective immediately. You’ll be compensated for your ti—” “You’re not the director, or the producer.” I let out a shriek, anger rising up through my chest. “You can’t do that.” “I can and am.”
