I watch Sam's tile. Her eyes flick up to her webcam. For one fraction of a second, she is looking directly through the lens, straight at me.
It isn't a glare. It is a shared, horrified realization.We are trapped together.My hand drops to the mouse, my fingers locking around it in a rigid, white-knuckled grip.
If I don't say something, they'll take my silence for agreement.
Redirect. Reframe as respecting Sam's authority.
"I can put the slides together," I say, keeping my tone easy. "Pull the key shots, add notes if anyone needs context. Sam can present, she understands the project better than anyone. I'll stay available if questions come up."
I make it sound like efficiency. Like the room doesn’t need two voices.
The truth is simpler. I do the work. Then I walk away. That was the plan.
I watch Sam's tile and wait. This is her opening. All she has to do is take it.
Her shoulders shift.
Just slightly.
Like she's weighing whether trying to regain more ownership is worth debating with the Developer.
Come on, Sam. Take it.
I walked into this job expecting Sam to carry the presentation. I just supply the photography. Nobody asking me to defend visual choices in front of investors six months from now when someone's trying to kill the budget.
She's not objecting.
She's not sayingI can handle this aloneorTom's right, we don't need two voices.
I lean forward. I'm ready to unmute, to support her if she pushes back.
Sam comes off mute.
Finally.
"Tom's photography makes a compelling argument for this project."
Her jaw is set. Not relieved. Not victorious.
She's trapped. The same way I am.
When the conversation shifts into logistics, I stop listening. Words like templates, shared folders, and branding guidelines blur into corporate white noise.
I start running exit scenarios instead.
I could claim the schedule doesn't work. Cite conflicting commitments. Another project. Travel. Something polite and professional that gets me out of this before it starts.
Then the calendar notification slides into the corner of my screen.
Morgan + Bennett Visual Review — Recurring. Thursdays. 9:00 AM.
The decision’s already locked in.
I stare at the calendar while someone keeps talking about stakeholder expectations. My hand tightens around the mouse.
When the call ends, the video tiles blink out one by one. Sam's disappears last.
I sit in the blue glow of the monitor, the image I spent all morning perfecting still open behind the meeting window.
