Chapter 12 - Paige's Catastrophe
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While my father was hyperventilating in his office, Paige’s professional life was actively exploding in spectacular fashion in Manhattan.
The luxury cosmetics brand had caught wind of the disastrous, meme-filled advertising campaign within hours. The internet had already immortalized the blunder. Screenshots of raccoons in clown makeup with the slogan "Look like trash, feel like cash" were trending number one globally on Twitter.
The cosmetics CEO was absolutely furious. They threatened to pull their entire multi-million dollar retainer from the marketing agency immediately.
My friend, the agency director, called Paige into the main glass-walled conference room. The entire office watched as Paige marched in, looking annoyed rather than terrified, completely oblivious to the gravity of her colossal mistake.
"Paige, can you explain exactly how a satirical, placeholder image was pushed live to a million-dollar ad buy under your direct supervision?" the director demanded, sliding a printed screenshot of the horrific ad across the table.
Paige glanced at it, scoffed, and immediately played her favorite card: blaming someone else.
"Oh, that? The graphic design interns must have uploaded the wrong file," Paige lied smoothly, flipping her hair. "I explicitly told them to use the approved summer beach assets. They are so incompetent. You really need to fire them."
The director stared at her, completely unamused.
"We pulled the digital access logs, Paige," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "The interns didn't upload it. Your specific user account authorized the final approval and pushed the campaign live at 2:14 PM yesterday. While you were taking selfies on the roof."
Paige went completely pale. The color drained from her face as she realized she couldn't charm or manipulate her way out of hard digital evidence.
"It was a glitch!" she stammered defensively. "The software is buggy! This isn't my fault!"
"You are incredibly unprofessional, dangerously negligent, and you lack even basic accountability," the director stated firmly. "You have cost this agency immense reputational damage. You are fired, Paige. Effective immediately. Pack your desk and leave the building."
Paige burst into hysterical tears, causing a massive, embarrassing scene as security escorted her out of the agency.
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Ten minutes later, sitting in my own quiet office, I watched my phone light up. It was an unread voicemail from Paige. She was sobbing, begging me to call her back, claiming she had been "unfairly targeted and bullied" at work and desperately needed money for her rent.
I deleted the voicemail without listening to the end. The golden child had finally tarnished.
