Ravi had actively encouraged that kind of input.
Craig… did not. And he definitely didn’t likemedoing it.
So I stopped. Stopped offering ideas. Stopped… being visible, really. I just kept my head down, my mouth shut, and did the work.
It’s shocking how quickly one mediocre man can derail your entire life.
Six months ago, I walked into this building without my stomach clenched into a fist of anxiety. I was happy here. Quietly happy, the kind you don’t notice until it’s gone. Doing work that mattered with people who made me feel likeImattered.
That was Before Craig.
Funny, isn’t it? Every self-help book preaches the same sermon:Take your power back. Don’t let anyone else decide your worth.
And here I am. Letting it happen. Again.
My phone dings with a new work email.
Subject: Lunch
Georgie,
Join me tomorrow for lunch.
Patrick McLaren
I might genuinely vomit right here in this stairwell. Lunch with Patrick? Tomorrow? I absolutely cannot. I physically cannot. I have a critical IRIS update due—the one Patrick himself requested, funneled through Craig.
My fingers tremble as I type:
Sir,
I really appreciate the invitation, but I need to focus on critical IRIS work tomorrow.
Hope you understand.
Thanks again.
Georgie
His reply lands a minute later.
My office. 5 p.m. today.
Patrick McLaren
Oh God.
He’s furious.
All I was trying to do was prioritize, make sure the update didn’t go off the rails. Do my job.
Now I’ve just made everything worse.
THREE
Not your grandfather
Patrick
