Safe With You

Everything On Fire (But We’re Fine, Thanks For Asking)

~ Elle ~

It’s 8:38 a.m.

Exactly three minutes after I’ve sat down with my first cup of coffee, opened my laptop, and promised myself that today, for once, would be a calm day.

Then my phone buzzes.

Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

The notification banner flashes AQ Group Chat 💅🏽💜🔥.

It’s Alyssa.

>Alyssa: “I’m going away for the week. I need to de-stress. You’re in charge.

Tray thinks he’s in charge. Fire anyone you need to — within reason.

Not bringing you coffee isn’t a reason.

And don’t burn my building down.

Love you 💋”

I blink at the screen.

Then I read it again.

And again.

Then I look across the table at Kelsi, who’s mid-sip of her caramel latte and scrolling through her tablet, blissfully unaware of the emotional grenade that’s just detonated in my inbox.

“Kels,” I say slowly, voice flat.

She hums absently. “What?”

I slide my phone toward her.

She reads it.

Then, without saying a word, she looks up — eyes wide, mouth open — and whispers, “She’s finally snapped.”

There’s a long, stunned pause.

Then we both burst out laughing.

“She’s actually lost the plot,” Kelsi wheezes, clutching her stomach.

“Honestly?” I say, wiping tears from my eyes. “I’m impressed it took this long.”

~ Kelsi ~

I scroll back to reread Alyssa’s message — every word dripping with that brand of chaos only she could pull off — and snort-laugh so hard I almost choke on my coffee.

“She said Tray thinks he’s in charge!” I giggle. “Oh, he’s going to love that.”

Elle’s already typing furiously. “We need to message her back before she’s on a beach somewhere deleting emails and drinking cocktails with tiny umbrellas.”

She dictates as she types:

Elle: “You’ve finally lost it, haven’t you? Should we alert the press or your therapist first?”

Kelsi: “Bring me back a souvenir, preferably a tan, a husband, or both. PS: I’m firing anyone who looks at me funny.”

We hit send in perfect unison, proud of our teamwork.

Then we both just sit there — the quiet hum of the office around us — trying to process the fact that our fearless leader has vanished midweek.

Elle takes a dramatic sip of coffee. “So, let me get this straight. She’s just left. No warning. No schedule. Just—”

She waves her arms for emphasis. “—‘I’m going to the airport, bye!’”

“Yup,” I say, popping the ‘p’. “And we’re now in charge of one of the most powerful fashion houses in Europe.”

We stare at each other.

Then, deadpan, Elle mutters, “Everything’s on fire.”

And without missing a beat, I raise my hand and quote dramatically, “‘But I’m fine, thanks for asking.’”

We both absolutely lose it.

There are tears.

Snorts.

Unattractive cackles that echo through the hall.

A passing intern pokes his head in, confused. “Uh… should we be worried?”

“Yes,” Elle says immediately.

“Terrified,” I add, wiping my eyes. “But it’s fine. Thanks for asking.”

~ Elle ~

By 9:15 a.m., the situation has escalated.

Triston’s pacing the hallway, phone glued to his ear, muttering about “containment strategies” like he’s defusing a bomb.

Someone from marketing bursts in yelling that Harper’s Bazaar just called asking for an emergency interview “to follow up on Alyssa’s emotional rebirth aesthetic.”

Which, frankly, sounds like a cult.

Meanwhile, Kelsi’s taken control of Alyssa’s office, spinning in her chair like a Bond villain while answering emails with terrifying speed.

“Elle,” she says calmly, “if I’m going to run AQ for a week, I need snacks. And possibly a small army.”

“You already have me,” I point out.

She grins. “Exactly.”

We spend the next two hours trying — and failing — to maintain professionalism.

Someone’s double-booked a supplier meeting.

Half the interns are panicking because “Alyssa always signs off personally.”

And Triston? He’s sending emails so aggressively that his keyboard’s begging for mercy.

At one point, he storms into Alyssa’s office holding a stack of folders.

“Where is she?” he demands.

“Gone,” I say simply.

“Gone where?”

Kelsi shrugs. “Somewhere hot with a water park.”

He blinks. “That’s… oddly specific.”

“She said it herself,” I add. “We just didn’t believe her.”

He drags a hand over his face and sighs like a man who’s aged ten years in ten minutes.

“If anything happens while she’s gone—”

Elle cuts him off. “We’ll blame you.”

He gives us both the world’s most unimpressed stare.

Then he leaves, muttering something that sounds like, “I should’ve gone into construction.”

~ Kelsi ~

By lunchtime, chaos is our brand.

Elle’s somehow got four phones balanced on her desk, fielding calls from Vogue, Elle Magazine (the other Elle), and a designer from Milan who’s “emotionally moved” by Alyssa’s maternity line.

Meanwhile, I’m on my third iced coffee and writing an email to the legal team that starts with, “Per my last nervous breakdown…”

At some point, Winston stops by, smirking. “Heard your queen has fled the kingdom.”

“She hasn’t fled,” Elle says sweetly. “She’s strategically relocated.”

“Mm-hm,” he says, clearly amused. “And left you two in charge. What could go wrong?”

“Everything,” I say brightly. “And it already has.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You two are ridiculous.”

Then he pauses, eyes narrowing. “Wait — does Triston know she put you in charge?”

“Not yet,” Elle says.

Winston grins. “Oh, this I have to see.”

~ Triston ~

If I ever wondered what running AQ without Alyssa would be like, I have my answer now:

hell, but with better lighting.

It’s 3 p.m. and my inbox looks like the aftermath of a natural disaster.

The PR team’s in meltdown mode because the press caught wind that Alyssa’s on holiday. Someone from finance just asked if we can “pause production until she returns.”

And Elle and Kelsi?

They’ve taken over her office like a pair of cheerful dictators.

When I walk in, Kelsi’s eating crisps from Alyssa’s desk drawer and Elle’s halfway through rearranging the décor.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Why does it look like a teenage slumber party in here?”

Elle waves a hand. “Creative brainstorming.”

“With crisps?”

Kelsi shrugs. “Carb-fuelled innovation.”

I sigh. “You two are going to give me grey hair.”

Elle smirks. “That’s okay. We’ll just add you to the AQ Silver Fox campaign.”

They dissolve into laughter while I seriously consider faking my own disappearance.

Then Elle’s phone dings — another message from Alyssa.

Alyssa: “Plane just took off. First class. Everyone’s happy. Don’t burn anything. Xx.”

Kelsi reads it aloud, grinning. “She booked all of first class! She’s insane.”

“Insane,” Elle agrees, “but iconic.”

I lean against the doorway, arms folded, watching them.

Alyssa might’ve left me to deal with this circus, but for once… it’s good chaos.

Messy. Loud. Human.

Exactly like her.

I can’t even be mad.

“Alright,” I say finally, grabbing my laptop. “Let’s make sure she has something worth coming back to.”

Kelsi grins. “Does that mean we’re keeping our jobs?”

I smirk. “Ask me in seven days.”