I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I slid open my desk drawer, pulled out the navy folder I’d been quietly preparing for six weeks, and stood up. “Before I go, Brett, you should probably know the Lumen pitch deck is encrypted to my credentials. The client review is in forty minutes.” His smirk twitched. “Don’t be dramatic. IT can crack that in ten.” “They can,” I agreed, “but they can’t fix the fact that Lumen’s CMO specifically requested I lead the call. She put it in writing last Thursday.” I slid the printed email across his desk. He didn’t pick it up. He didn’t have to. The elevator chimed behind us. A woman in a cream coat stepped out — sharp bob, sharper eyes — and the whole floor went silent. “Maya,” she said warmly, extending a hand. “Elena Reyes. I flew in early. I wanted to meet the strategist who saved my brand before some middle manager tried to take credit again.” Brett’s face drained so fast I almost felt bad. Almost. Elena turned to him, smile polite, voice arctic. “You must be Brett. I read your performance reviews on the flight. Specifically the part where you marked Maya as ‘low initiative’ the same quarter she delivered the campaign that got you your bonus.” She tilted her head. “Funny coincidence.” Brett opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Elena turned back to me. “My team is restructuring the agency relationship. I want you running point as Creative Director. Your office, your hires, your budget. Starts Monday.” I picked up my navy folder, tucked it under my arm, and finally looked at Brett. “Pack up your sad little cubicle,” I said softly. “The new VP doesn’t want dead weight stinking up the marketing floor.” The bullpen erupted. Brett just stood there, holding his melting iced coffee, watching three years of stolen credit drip down his wrist.
