But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared her for Gerald P. Huffington.
"He did WHAT?" Vivian nearly choked on her third espresso of the morning. It was only 9:17 AM.
Her assistant, Marco, winced as he delivered the news. "He showed up at the Children's Hospital charity gala last night and... well, he brought an emotional support peacock."
"An emotional support... peacock." Vivian repeated the words slowly, as if careful pronunciation might somehow make them less absurd.
"Yes. Apparently, it got startled during the silent auction and—"
"No. Don't tell me."
"—it destroyed the ice sculpture of the hospital's founder and then proceeded to relieve itself on the thousand-dollar-a-plate dinner tables."
Vivian closed her eyes. "Please tell me there's no video."
Marco's silence was answer enough.
"How many views?"
"It's trending at number three globally. The hashtag is #PeacockPocalypse."
Signing Gerald Huffington as a client had seemed like a coup for Chen Public Relations just three weeks ago. The tech billionaire had made his fortune developing a revolutionary carbon capture technology that was genuinely helping fight climate change. He was brilliant, wealthy, and supposedly committed to saving the world.
The contract had promised to double their agency's annual revenue. What the contract failed to mention was that Gerald had the self-awareness of a toddler and the impulse control of a labrador retriever on espresso.
"Call him," Vivian sighed. "Get him in here. Now."
Ninety minutes later, Gerald P. Huffington bounced into her office wearing mismatched Crocs, cargo shorts, and a t-shirt reading "Ask Me About My Carbon Footprint." He was fifty-three going on twelve, with wild gray hair that defied gravity and thick-rimmed glasses that magnified his perpetually excited eyes.
"Vivian! Good morning! Did you see how much the charity raised last night? Almost two million! That's fantastic, isn't it? Though I think Ferdinand helped draw attention to the event."
"Ferdinand?" Vivian asked, dreading the answer.
"My peacock! Beautiful creature. Very sensitive. He's at the vet now getting a check-up. The foie gras didn't agree with him."
Vivian took a deep breath. "Gerald. We need to talk about your public appearances."
"Oh, absolutely! I've been thinking—what about a TED Talk? I could bring Ferdinand, and maybe Gertrude too."
"Gertrude?"
"My emotional support flamingo."
Vivian briefly considered if her office window was high enough for a life-ending jump. Unfortunately, they were only on the third floor.
"Gerald, no. No more birds at public events. In fact, I've prepared a new protocol for your appearances." She slid a folder across her desk. "This includes pre-approved talking points, outfit guidelines, and a list of topics to avoid."
Gerald picked up the folder, flipped through it with disinterest, and set it down. "You know what would be great publicity? If I demonstrated my new personal submarine prototype in the Central Park pond next weekend."
"Absolutely not."
"But it's totally safe! Mostly. The first two prototypes only partially imploded."
Vivian pinched the bridge of her nose. "Gerald, do you remember why you hired us?"
"Because I'm making the world a better place and people should know about it!"
"No. You hired us because last month you tried to demonstrate your solar-powered jetpack at that elementary school and set the playground on fire."
"Minor technical issue! And I've already paid for a new playground. With a dinosaur theme! Kids love dinosaurs."
"The point is," Vivian continued, struggling to maintain her professional tone, "your inventions are genuinely revolutionary. Your carbon capture technology could help save humanity from climate disaster. But none of that matters if the public sees you as a dangerous eccentric rather than a visionary."
Gerald looked momentarily thoughtful. "So... no submarine in Central Park?"
"No submarine anywhere public. No peacocks, flamingos, or any other exotic animals. No unplanned demonstrations. No—" she glanced at his shirt, "—slogan t-shirts."
"But how will people ask me about my carbon footprint?" Gerald asked with genuine confusion.
"Trust me, if they want to know, they'll ask."
Gerald fidgeted in his chair. "Fine. I'll try to behave. But I still think Ferdinand was a hit."
Just as Vivian was about to respond, Marco burst into the office without knocking—something he never did.
"We have a situation," he said, his face pale. "It's trending on every platform."
"What now?" Vivian asked, her stomach dropping.
Marco held up his tablet. On the screen was an amateur video of a flamingo—presumably Gertrude—running wild through what appeared to be the lobby of the Natural History Museum, with security guards in pursuit.
The video's caption read: "Tech billionaire's bird attacks T-Rex display during school field trip! #FlamingoVsRex"
"When did this happen?" Vivian asked, her voice eerily calm.
"About ten minutes ago," Marco replied.
Both turned to look at Gerald, who had the decency to appear sheepish.
"I may have forgotten to mention that I dropped Gertrude off for some cultural enrichment this morning," he admitted. "Flamingos are very intelligent, you know. They appreciate dinosaur exhibits."
Vivian took a deep breath, straightened her jacket, and stood up. "Marco, call the museum director. Offer an immediate donation of... let's say a quarter million. Gerald, you're going to make a public apology. No birds, no jokes, no inventions. Just a simple, sincere apology."
"Can I at least explain that Gertrude was just trying to connect with her evolutionary ancestors?"
"No."
"What about—"
"NO."
Three hours and one painfully scripted press conference later, Vivian sat in her office reviewing damage control metrics. The apology had gone reasonably well—Gerald had stayed on script, expressed appropriate remorse, and announced a substantial donation to both the museum and to actual flamingo conservation efforts. The hashtags were losing momentum.
Just as Vivian was beginning to feel that the crisis might be contained, her phone rang.
"Ms. Chen?" came a voice she didn't recognize. "This is Dr. Patel from City General Hospital. We have you listed as the emergency contact for a Mr. Gerald Huffington?"
Vivian's blood ran cold. "What happened?"
"Mr. Huffington is fine—just a few minor burns and some singed eyebrows. But I'm afraid he's unable to fill out his own paperwork due to the, um, experimental gloves fused to his hands."
"Experimental... gloves?"
"Yes, he says they're prototype 'gravity-defying manipulators.' He was apparently testing them when they malfunctioned and sent him straight up to the ceiling of his workshop. The fire started when he tried to use his feet to reach the control panel."
Vivian closed her eyes and counted to ten. "I'll be right there."
As she gathered her things, her phone pinged with an email notification. The subject line read: "INVITATION: US Senate Committee on Science and Technology requests testimony from Mr. Gerald P. Huffington on advancing carbon capture innovation."
Vivian stared at her phone in horror. Gerald Huffington. Testifying. Before Congress. On live television.
She grabbed her emergency bottle of antacids from her desk drawer and headed for the door.
"Marco," she called out, "cancel my appointments for the next month. And find out if the Senate allows emotional support peacocks in hearing rooms."
"Should I even ask why?" Marco replied.
"No," Vivian said firmly. "And find me the number for a good bird trainer. And possibly an exorcist."
As the elevator doors closed, Vivian couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of her situation. Gerald Huffington might be the death of her career—and possibly several exotic birds—but it would certainly never be boring.
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