It’s not fine.
“The third messaging pillar needs work,” Nico says flatly. “The ‘human impact’ angle reads as emotional manipulation rather than authentic connection.”
My fingers freeze on the keyboard.
That’s.... that’s the pillar I was most proud of.
The one where I suggested highlighting actual patient stories. The one I spent an extra hour refining because I knew it was the emotional center of the entire strategy.
Why give it to Paloma, only to say itneeds work?
Her shoulders drop slightly. “I can revise the approach. Maybe lean more into metrics instead of narrative?”
“Do that.”
I watch Paloma nod, her face carefully professional while something deflates behind her eyes. She’s good at her job. The fact that she can’t do it well rightnow isn’t her fault. It’shis. He’s so busy micromanaging and contradicting that he’s made her afraid to take any initiative at all.
And apparently when she does take initiative, usingmyideas that he gave her without context, he shoots them down anyway.
What the hell’s his problem?
He wants to show me that my ideas suck, but he can’t tell me that to my face so he has to use another employee as a proxy?
Or maybe my ideadoesn’tsuck, but he takes grim pleasure in eviscerating it anyway, because it’s too hard for him to admit that his own ideas aren’t very good.
The meeting ends.
Paloma gathers her laptop and leaves without making eye contact with anyone. In moments, the conference room is empty except for me and Nico.
But he’s already heading for his office. The long strides of a man who expects the world to rearrange itself around him.
Something snaps inside me.
It’s not dramatic. Not loud. More like a rubber band that’s been stretched too far finally giving way with a quiet littlecrack!
I grab my laptop and follow him.
He’s almost to his office door when I catch up. He reaches for the handle. I shove past him and push it open, stepping inside before he can close me out.
He follows me inside. “Ms. Dawson, I don’t recall requesting a meeting.”
I make as if to leave, but when I reach the door, I close it instead, locking us both inside. The click sounds louder thanit should.
“If you don’t like my work,” I spit. Literally. “Tell me to my face. Rather than through a proxy.”
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel my pulse in my throat.
Nico stares. “Excuse me?”
Oh, that tone. The one that’s supposed to make me realize I’ve overstepped and send me scurrying back to my proper place.
Not today.
“You’ve been using my work for a while now,” I continue. “So stop pretending I don’t exist when there are witnesses.”
He frowns. “I don’t know what—”
“The foundation proposal that the donors loved? Mine.” I’m aware my cheeks are getting hot. Can feel the flush creeping up my neck. Don’t care. “The donor email that saved three funding commitments? I wrote it. The media strategy Paloma just presented? My notes, repackaged. Even if you just eviscerated it. Right in front of me.”
