Let him be stressed.
He deserves it.
Except he doesn’t, not really. The crisis isn’t his fault. Martin Hale is actively trying to destroy him. The board is circling. The media is sharpening their knives.
And I keep helping him anyway. Because I’m apparently incapable of not caring about him, even when he treats me like I’m invisible.
The afternoon stretches ahead of me, endless and gray.
I wonder how long I can keep doing this before I snap.
13
Bree
Thursday morning.
The conference room is the same as always. Paloma stands at the presentation screen, clicking through slides with the weary determination of someone who’s been through this rodeo before and knows she’s about to get thrown.
Nico sits at the head of the table.
He’s in charcoal today. Suit jacket on. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the morning light catches the scar tissue along his jaw, and I hate myself for noticing how the contrast makes his features look sharper.
I focus on my laptop screen.
Notes. I’m taking notes.
“The revised media strategy focuses on proactive stakeholder engagement,” Paloma says, advancing to the next slide. “Rather than responding to each negative story individually,wecontrol the narrative.”
Wait.
This is my idea.
Word for word.
I wrote this on a sticky note just the other night while eating cold pad Thai at my desk.
How didPalomaget her hands on it?
That’s it.
I’m done putting “helpful” notes on his desk.
I should’ve learned my lesson the first time.
I guess I thought he’d finally acknowledge me.
Fool me once, shame on you...
Paloma clicks through three more slides.
All mine.
Every single one of them filtered through sticky notes, left on his desk after hours, now being presented as Paloma’s work.
Which she probably thinks it is, because Nico must have fed her the ideas without attribution.
This is fine.
