The Call
Celia's voice was calm in a way that felt rehearsed, like she'd told this story enough times in her head that it had worn smooth.
"Gerald recruited me out of my internship," she said. "Told me I was the best junior strategist he'd seen in a decade. For two years, I believed him completely."
"What happened?"
"I got put up for the Caldwell & Reed pitch lead. Biggest account of the year. Gerald told me he was thrilled for me." A pause, dry. "Three weeks before the pitch, I started hearing whispers. That I was difficult. That a client had complained about me — a client I'd never even met alone, always with him in the room. By the time the pitch decision came down, I wasn't even on the list."
"That could be office politics. That could be anything."
"It could be," Celia agreed, too easily. "Except six months later I found the client email he said complained about me. I wasn't cc'd on the original thread — he'd forwarded himself a version with a paragraph added that was never in the client's actual message. I have a screenshot. I've had it for nine years."
Naomi's throat went dry. "Why didn't you go to HR?"
"I did. He got there first. Framed it as me being unstable, grasping, jealous of a colleague who'd taken the account instead. It worked. It always works, because he's not stupid enough to leave prints anywhere obvious, and because everyone loves him." Celia's voice cracked, just slightly, on the last word. "You love him too. I can hear it."
Naomi didn't answer that.
"You're not the only one who wrote me this year," Celia said instead. "There's a man named Desh Okonkwo who left in 2019, same story, almost word for word. And a woman — Priyanka Sethi — Gerald mentored her for three years before he 'reluctantly' recommended she be let go over 'irregular timesheets' she swore she never filed."
Naomi felt something cold settle behind her ribs.
"Celia — there's a girl at the office right now. Talia. She's exactly where you were. She just lost the Whitmore account this morning."
The line went quiet for three full seconds.
"Then you don't have nine years," Celia said. "You have weeks. Maybe less."