It’s been a few weeks since the last one. I was doing so well. Three months before that, actually, which felt like progress.
My therapist would probably say something wise about trauma responses and triggers and how healing isn’t linear. To be fair to Nico, and I’m trying to be fair, even though he’s an asshole, he probably didn’t cause this. My job title is literallysecretary. Going on the occasional coffee run is part of the job description.
He might have accelerated the timeline a bit with that casual dismissiveness, but these episodes happen regardless. They’re like emotional landmines buried in my psyche, and eventually I step on one whether there’s an immediate trigger or not.
This is not the time. This is not the place. I left that behind five years ago. I survived it. I rebuilt myself from the rubble of my reputation and I’m not going back there.
I wipe my eyes carefully with toilet paper. Check my phone. Two minutes. I’ll give myself two minutes to ride out this completely predictable trauma response, and then I’ll fix my makeup and go back to my desk and keep being the invisible secretary who writes proposals that other people take credit for.
At least I’m getting better at therecovery time. Last year this would have taken twenty minutes and a phone call to Sora.
Progress.
Finally I stand up, smooth my blazer, and exit the stall. The mirror reflects someone I barely recognize. Eyes slightly red but nothing some concealer won’t fix.
I pull out my emergency makeup kit. The one from my desk. Concealer under the eyes. Powder to set it. Mascara touch-up.
There.
Perfect.
You’re handling this.
You don’t need anyone’s validation.
Except I do. That’s the pathetic part. I want someone to see me. To recognize what I contribute. To say “Bree, that proposal was brilliant, thank you for writing it.”
But I’ll never get that from Nico.
I realize that now.
Dear Mr. Rossi,
Please accept this letter as two weeks’ notice of my resignation from the position of Executive Secretary...
The words compose themselves in my head as I walk back to my desk. I don’t write them down. Not yet. But they’re there, waiting.
Ready.
It’s too bad I really need this job.
My laptop still has the meeting notes on screen. I save the document, close it, and pull up my email.
Three new messages from donors requesting follow-up information. Two calendar invites for next week. One email from Paloma asking for the meeting transcript.
I start typing.
Dear Ms. Vance,
Please find attached the full transcript of today’s donor call...
The words are mechanical.
Exactly what’s expected of me.
Nico’s office door is closed. Through the glass walls, I can see him on the phone, pacing, one hand rubbing the scar at his jaw like he always does when he’s stressed.
Good.
