The grin and thanks I thought were forthcoming did not happen. Instead he placed the ponche on my desk and without even bothering to look at me said, “I don’t accept gifts from my assistants,” then walked off.

Such a comemierda.

He won’t be your boss much longer, I reminded myself, trying to shake off the lingering mortification of that memory. But instead of relief at the thought of no longer having to deal with Theo Anibal looking right through me on a daily basis, that weird sensation like I’d swallowed a bunch of ice settled in my stomach again.

It had to be nerves. It made perfect sense to be a little nervous that the leap I was taking on my own was a huge one and losing the security of a job with full health benefits was understandably spooking me. It wasn’t like I’d miss him, that would be... Well, it didn’t matter what it was because I was delighted to be quitting this job.

It wasn’t even about Theo, really; being a PA had always been a temporary plan. I had a degree in interior design from the New School and a master of architecture from Columbia, which I would be paying for until I died. Making macchiatos for surly millionaires wasn’t what I was destined to do.

Hell, this job was supposed to be a six-month gig to help my mother through one of her many “money is tight” spells while I was in grad school. It was a one-year-tops situation, and here I was almost three years later, still getting yelled at for not getting the right biscotti for a man with a degree from MIT with access to the same food delivery apps I had. For over a year now I’d let my mother’s warnings that “decorating bedrooms for your friends isn’t a secure job” keep me from taking the leap. And it was true that a few hundred thousand followers on TikTok didn’t exactly warrant success for my business, but I’d never know if I didn’t try.