Chapter Text
“What the fuck is this?”
Emily Charlton stood in her office at Coach, clad in an expensive creme Chanel blouse and black suit pants that probably cost more than the salary of her assistant standing in front of her.
“When I said ‘make it pop', I under no circumstances meant chartreuse.”
The sight itself was more than distasteful.
When Emily took this job, the last thing she expected was to be held at gunpoint by the ugliest color to exist. Since being senior executive at Coach, she's had her fair share of run-ins with interns that believed creativity stood above compliance.
And if something isn't compliant to Emily, she won't hesitate to force it.
“Whoever did this?” she remarked, her tone betraying a clear sense of distress. This was outrageous to bring to her desk at-
She checked her Rolex.
7:40 pm.
“One of the interns, ma'am.”
Of course
“I can go ask for the name?” her assistant was horrible at hiding whenever Emily started unnerving her.
“Is that not what my question implied? Go."
With that, her assistant scurried away as fast as she could.
Silence enveloped her office, the only sound being the ticking clock mounted above an armoire to her left. She sat down at her desk, shoulders slumping.
Believe it or not, even Emily Charlton could get burned out one day. And today was said day. She'd spent all day ushering designers and assistants around, deciding which shade of blue would be perfect for their summer collection (newsflash: they all looked the same).
Letting out a sigh, she checked her personal phone for the first time that day.
Andrea Sachs
| I'm free this weekend. Would you be up for another breakfast date?
Right.
Andrea.
The woman who's been tormenting her life for the past 20 years.
The woman who made her job so much harder the moment she employed her.
The woman who stole Paris from her.
The woman who stole her h–
Emily Charlton
| I'm working this weekend.
Smooth, Emily.
Very smooth.
The three dots staring back at her teased her, making her anticipate the inevitable.
Andrea Sachs
| Okay. Text me when you're free
Demanding her free time?
Andrea surely thought she was something special.
Freshly manicured nails tapped relentlessly against the glass screen. Just get this over with, Emily.
Emily Charlton
| I'm not free for the next few days. I take this job seriously.
Accidentally implying Andrea doesn't care about her job.
Good job.
God, how many times has she said jo-
Her train of thoughts were interrupted as her assistant cheerfully walked back into her office.
Now that was a new sight to behold.
One so heartwarming she wanted to dry her tears with bleach.
“I took care of it. Their internship was terminated.” her assistant said all to gleefully, clearly expecting praise.
Emily Charlton did not praise.
“And the color? You found a replacement, I hope.”
Her assistant’s smile dropped instantly, the usual expression of uncertainty plastered across her face.
Emily felt accomplished, returning to her familiar routine.
“Have I not been clear enough with you, Amanda? Do not come back to my office without a finalized result. And it better not be anywhere close to chartreuse.”
As her assistant disappeared again as quickly as she had arrived, Emily checked her phone.
No new messages from Andy.
Good.
Thinking this was finally the last inconvenience she had to deal with on a Friday evening, she stared up at the ticking clock to her left.
7:45 pm.
15 minutes.
She could finally start to relax and prepare to go home to Bronwyn and Roark.
She hadn't been home early enough to have dinner with them in weeks. Dare she say, she was looking forward to i–
Ring
“What is it now Andr-”
She looked at the caller.
Franck.
“Odd”, she remarked.
Ring.
He's never called her unless the kids were at his place.
Still, just in case, she picked up.
Fatal mistake.
“It's late, the kids are at my place what could you possibly wa–”
“Emily Charlton?”
She stopped, mouth hanging open for a second too long before she regained her composure.
It wasn't Franck's voice, far from it.
It was both deeper and way too professional sounding to get on her nerves.
No, not professional.
Careful.
“Yes. That is… my name,” she said, treading carefully.
They sounded concerned, as if they were about to tell her there's a bomb in her office that will go off in 30 seconds.
“Bellevue Hospital. Dr. Campbell-Brown.”
Now she wished it was a bomb.
20 seconds.
“Why are you calling me.”
“It’s your ex-husband. Franck.”
She rolled her eyes hard enough to almost make them pop out.
Of course.
Why else would they have his phone.
He probably stubbed his toe and panicked that he broke his leg.
10 seconds.
“What'd he do now? It's just like him to call me and comfort him even after he-”
“He's gone.”
No explosion.
No sound.
Nothing.
It was just empty.
Like suddenly the wind stopped blowing and she couldn't breathe.
“W-what” she felt herself stumble over her words.
This never happened.
She shouldn't care.
She doesn't know if she cares.
Her breath turned shallow.
“He passed away in a tragic accident earlier today. Vehicular manslaughter. You were on his list of emergency contacts.”
Breathe, Emily.
“I'm so sorry for your lo-”
She hung up.
Franck.
Her Franck.
Dead.
The same Franck she met during hour rush on the 210, stumbling over his own feet with clearly no clue where he was.
Franck, who thought it'd be romantic to propose on a small canoe in Venice but only ended up tipping the boat over and drenching the two in dirty sewer water.
The man who promised to protect Bronwyn and Roark with his life the moment they took their first breaths.
Bronwyn and Roark.
Oh god.
“Amanda. You're closing tonight.”
She passed by her dumbfounded assistant, her heels suddenly feeling like a cage at the speed she was rushing past her.
Emily was in her car within the same minute, pedal to the metal as she disregarded all traffic laws.
But the law didn't matter to her now.
It was unjust, unfair.
She felt her throat close up, her vision going blurry until the streetlights ahead of her were mere beacons of light taunting her.
Gripping onto the wheel like it was the only thing stabilizing her, burning hot tears dripped onto her blouse.
With sharp, uncoordinated movement she quickly wiped them away.
Pulling up into her apartment parking lot, Emily threw open the car door and stumbled out with no regard for her choice of shoe wear.
She immediately regretted it, her unsteady movement caused her to trip over herself more than once on the way to the elevator but she couldn't care less.
She had to be with her kids.
Now.
The door opened with a soft ding, her sweaty hands hammering on the sixth floor button.
Every second that went by felt like a second too long, an eternity in which she wished the elevator would just malfunction and plummet to her timely death.
Reaching the sixth floor, she sprinted to her apartment door, shaky fingers trying to hold her keys steady as she desperately tried to force it open. Hearing the door click, the kids ran up to Emily with the most joyful of expressions.
Oh god.
“Mum! Roark and I just won first place-” Bronwyn halted mid sentence, worriedly noticing how disheveled her mother looked.
Her bleached blonde bob looked like an artists interpretation of a birds nest, blouse tear-stained and wrinkled.
Emily was a mess.
The sight of her two beautiful dragonflies worried almost made her break down on the floor.
Yet she hesitated, taking the shakiest of breaths as she dropped her coat and tore off her heels, gently ushering the two to sit down on their cashmere sofa.
Roark's heavy breathing made Emily immediately reach for him.
God, please don't let him have an asthma attack now.
Not now.
“Mum..?” He squeaked, fidgeting with the controller still in his hand.
The TV still playing the Smash Bros Ultimate Theme felt distant and muffled.
“Baby I'm so sorry I-” she struggled with her words, eyes darting back and forth between her children.
They were still so small, only 7 and 9 years old.
This couldn't be happening.
This shouldn't be happening.
“It's your father. He's… god-” she choked back and aggressive sob.
Seeing their faces twist in recognition was something right out of her worst nightmare.
“He's gone, my angels. He's dead.”
The silence that followed felt unbearable.
“Daddy is…?” Bronwyn spoke first, lip quivering.
Roark already started sobbing.
“I'm so sorry dear…”
And for the first time in Emily's life, she cried in front of her kids.
Pathetic, heartbreaking tears.
She held onto Roark and Bronwyn, cradling them as the two broke down in her arms.
They didn't deserve this.
They deserved to have experienced a loving father.
A father who, even when he didn't know any better, would do their homework with them.
Bronwyn deserved to have her father walk her down the aisle.
Roark deserved to score a goal in football against him. Neither of them would ever get that.
They would never again be able to hug him and complain his stubble is annoyingly ticklish.
They would never again dream that maybe, just maybe, their mum and dad would love each other again.
That they might be a family again.
Two hours later she put the two to bed, waiting for another hour by their bedsides to make sure they were sleeping peacefully.
Well, as peacefully as possible after what happened.
She changed into her pajamas and applied moisturizer, not having the energy to do her entirely too elaborate skincare routine.
Stepping out onto her terrace, she lit a cigarette.
The warm smoke filled her lungs as she took a long drag, staring up at the night sky.
God, today was all too difficult.
To think merely 5 hours ago she was worried about chartreuse, when now her ex-husband is dead and her kids’ lives are forever changed for the worse… it was truly sickening how cruel the world could be.
She took another deep inhale, lungs stuttering as she coughed up a cloud when a loud bang erupted, color spilling in the sky.
Who the fuck lit fireworks at midnight in the middle of summe- oh.
Right.
With her busy schedule she'd completely forgotten it's already July.
The fourth of July.
And it was supposed to be Franck's weekend with the kids tomorrow.
Fuck.
And she was already booked and busy.
She can't cancel her last second interview with Louis Vuitton’s new chief executive, Miranda would make sure to destroy her entire career.
And getting a babysitter last minute was almost impossible.
She frowned.
The fireworks painted the sky in blue, red, green. It was beautiful.
She watched as red sparks flew up into the atmosphere, reaching for the moon but never quite getting it's attention.
Andy loved red…
Oh right.
Andy.
Emily reached for her phone, dialing the familiar number.
On the other end a slurred voice answered
“Heeeey Andrea Sachs hereee…”
Emily didn't even notice the way her mind instantly stilled when she heard Andy's voice.
“It's Emily. You said you were free this weekend, right?”
God she hoped Andy hadn't already made spontaneous plans.
“Yeah?” The woman's voice immediately became firm, hopeful.
“So I'm booked and busy but… I kind of need a last minute favor.”
Emily bit her lip, trying not to blurt out the reason. This didn't concern Andrea. She didn't need to know.
“Hm?” murmured Andy. Emily's heart fluttered. She sounded so adorable when tire–
Uhm…
“Bronwyn and Roark are kind of trouble makers. I don't think I'll be able to leave them home alone tomorrow without coming back to a burning apartment complex.”
God Emily just get to the fucking point–
“Do you want me to… watch your kids?”
Andy sounded somewhat excited? What about this could possibly be… Doesn't matter.
“Yes, indeed. I'm asking you to watch my kids. Just this weekend… please.”
A sharp inhale on the other end.
Emily Charlton did not ask for favors.
Especially not from Andrea Sachs.
A cool breeze grazed Emily's exposed skin, her cheeks turning red.
Was it from the wind? Emily didn't know anymore.
It was summer after all.
“Okay. Yes, okay. Okay. I will.”
Andy stumbled over her words, the smile on her face evident in her tone of voice.
“Well… good night.”
Emily didn't wait for a response, hanging up and throwing her phone backwards onto her bed through the open terrace door without regard.
She lit her second cigarette of the night, the smoke in her lungs reaching to her brain, fogging up what little remained of her thoughts.
But not enough.
Before she knew it, her thoughts wandered back to Franck.
How the two used to go on evening strolls through Central Park with way too much alcohol in their systems.
He somehow managed to catch a goose and ‘gifted’ it to Emily… the bird just pecked him till he let go and it ran for the hills. He still had that scar on his thumb.
Emily exhaled.
He used to have that scar.
Sadness flooded her body, arms falling loosely, posture slouching until she curled in on herself.
This wasn't fair.
She shouldn't even be bothered by this. He was a pathological narcissist.
He showed his true colors to her, yet Emily kept repainting and repainting, trying to keep up the facade.
God damn it.
Her fingertips grazed over the nape of her neck.
She'd picked at the scratch more than she liked to admit, now hid well behind her bleached blonde locs.
It felt awful knowing what he was capable of, yet still feeling that somehow, someway she could've stopped this.
Could've convinced him to go to therapy earlier.
Could've never signed the divorce papers.
Could've made Bronwyn and Roark have the father they deser—
A loud bang snapped her out of her thoughts, a yellowish green firework going up.
As tears gently rolled down her cold facade, all she could think was—
Seriously, chartreuse?