“Sinclair.” Miles appears at my desk like a bad omen, his smile too wide, too practiced. “I need you on the Westbrook account. Client dinner tonight.”
I look up from my monitor. “Tonight? I already have?—“
“Plans?” He tilts his head, mock sympathy oozing from every pore. “I'm sure whatever it is can wait. Westbrook is a priority client. Thomas wants our best people on it.”
Our best people.The words drip with irony. He's been trying to bury me for weeks, and now suddenly I'm essential?
“What do you need me for?”
“To observe. Learn. Hear from the client what they need, so I don't waste my time having to repeat it for you.”
I bite back the response I want to give. “What time?”
“Seven thirty. Il Trovatore. Don't be late.” He taps my desk twice and walks away, leaving the scent of expensive cologne and bad intentions in his wake.
I text Logan.
Sin: Can't make it to the hospital until later. Work thing.
His reply comes fast.
Lo: Everything ok?
Sin: Fine. Client dinner. Please tell Kai I'll be there after.
I arrive ten minutes early,portfolio in hand, heels clicking against the marble floor. I didn't have time to go home and change. Miles made sure of that. My blouse is wrinkled from a full day at the office, but at least I keep deodorant in my desk drawer for emergencies like this.
The Westbrook team is already seated. Four executives, two assistants, and Miles at the head of the table, like he owns theplace. Rachel from our team is there too, along with Derek and Vanessa. Miles's loyal soldiers.
“Emma!” Miles gestures to an empty seat near the end of the table. Not next to the clients. Not where I could actually network. “So glad you could make it.”
I take my seat, wave to everyone. “It seems there was a miscommunication on the time.” I stare at Miles as I enunciate the words. He wanted me to arrive late.
The first hour goes smoothly enough. Miles does most of the talking, presenting the campaign strategy I helped develop. He doesn't credit me. I didn't expect him to. I focus on the clients, watching their reactions, noting what lands and what doesn't.
When there's a lull in conversation, I take my chance.
“Mr. Westbrook, if I may,” I lean forward slightly, “I noticed your brand has a strong following among millennials, but the Gen Z engagement is lagging. I have some ideas for a TikTok integration that could?—“
“Emma's always full of ideas,” Miles cuts in smoothly. “Very... enthusiastic.”
The condescension is subtle but unmistakable. Mr. Westbrook glances between us, uncertain.
“I'd like to hear it,” he says.
I continue, outlining the strategy. Short-form content. Authentic voices. A partnership with micro-influencers rather than celebrities. The clients nod along. One of them is actually taking notes.
Miles's smile tightens.
When I finish, Mr. Westbrook looks impressed. “That's exactly the kind of fresh thinking we need. Miles, why wasn't this in the original pitch?”
“We're still refining the approach,” Miles says, his voice clipped. “Emma sometimes gets ahead of herself.”
“I'd rather someone get ahead than fall behind,” Mr. Westbrook replies with a chuckle.
I allow myself a small smile. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
I'm wrong. It gets worse.
