Story code: ST-001721
Part 2: The Q3 Pitch
The plastic lid gave a sharp *snap*. A thin line of pale green liquid oozed through the fissure, coating Clara’s knuckles. It was cold.
Chloe’s eyes widened, dropping to the mess. “Clara, you’re spilling it.” Her voice was no longer dripping with sweetness; it was tight, laced with genuine panic.
“Minimize the window all you want, Chloe,” Clara said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper that barely carried over the hum of the air conditioning. “I read column C.”
Chloe’s hand jerked away from the mouse as if it had burned her. The color drained from her face, leaving her pale beneath her carefully applied bronzer. She glanced nervously around the open-plan office. A few desks away, the junior copywriters were laughing at a video on a phone, oblivious.
“Clara, please,” Chloe whispered, her eyes darting back to the monitor, then to Clara’s face. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand that you logged an eighteen-minute restroom break,” Clara said, her voice trembling, though she fought to keep it steady. She finally let go of the cup. It sat lopsided on the desk, a puddle of matcha forming around its base. “I was throwing up, Chloe. You held my hair back two weeks ago. And then you put a timestamp on it for Marcus.”
“He asked me to!” Chloe leaned forward, her voice defensive, pleading. “Marcus pulled me into his office on Monday. He said human resources needed documentation on team efficiency. He said if I didn’t help him gather metrics, he would evaluate my position, too. I’m on a probationary contract, Clara. I can’t lose this job. I have student loans. I just signed that new lease you helped me with!”
Clara stared at the young woman. The sheer audacity of using Clara’s mentorship as an excuse for betraying her made her stomach turn, a fresh wave of nausea rising that had nothing to do with her pregnancy.
“Metrics,” Clara repeated, the word tasting like ash. “You think reporting a typo in a Slack channel is a metric? You think telling him I left my desk for crackers is an efficiency audit? You didn’t just give him data, Chloe. You gave him a weapon. You built the exact paper trail he needs to fire me before my maternity leave kicks in.”
Chloe shrank back into her ergonomic chair. “He said it was just for a Performance Improvement Plan. Just to get you back on track.”
“A PIP at this agency is a death sentence, and you know it.” Clara’s eyes drifted past Chloe’s trembling shoulders to the physical items on the desk. Next to the keyboard was a glossy, printed pitch deck bound in clear plastic.
Clara reached out and dragged the deck across the desk.
“Hey, wait-” Chloe started, reaching for it, but Clara pulled it out of reach.
Clara flipped it over. It was the Q3 Strategy Review. The presentation Clara had spent the last three weekends building, sacrificing her evenings to perfectly align the market projections. The one she was supposed to present to the executive board at two o’clock today.
Right there, printed in bold Helvetica under the title, was the presenter’s name.
*Prepared and Presented by Chloe Jenkins.*
Clara felt the floor tilt beneath her feet. “You’re pitching my deck.”
Chloe swallowed hard, her eyes pooling with strategic tears. “Marcus said you were too distracted with… everything. He said you were a flight risk. He told me I needed to step up and take ownership if I wanted to stay on the team. I’m sorry, Clara. I really am. But I have to look out for my own career.”
Clara’s hands clenched around the glossy paper. The urge to sweep everything off Chloe’s desk-the dual monitors, the stupid noise-canceling headphones, the leaking cup of matcha-surged through her with terrifying force. She wanted to scream. She wanted to burn the entire department to the ground. She had protected this girl. She had fought for human resources to bump up her starting salary.
Before Clara could act on the destructive impulse, heavy footsteps approached down the aisle.
“Jenkins. Clara.”
Clara snapped her head up. Marcus Davis stood at the end of the partition, his arms crossed over his tailored suit jacket. His mouth was set in its usual hard line, his eyes flicking between the two women and the spilled drink on the desk.
“I see you’re back from your… appointment, Clara,” Marcus said, dragging out the word with deliberate condescension. “Good. The CEO’s schedule cleared up. We’re moving the Q3 Strategy Review up. Right now. Conference Room B.”
He looked directly at Chloe, offering her a curt nod. “Got the deck ready, Jenkins?”
“Yes, Marcus,” Chloe squeaked, sitting up straighter, wiping a single, fake tear from her cheek. She reached out toward Clara, her palm upturned, waiting for Clara to hand over the stolen presentation.
Clara looked at the glossy deck in her hands. She looked at Chloe, the eager executioner, and then at Marcus, the architect of her ruin. They expected her to just hand it over. They expected her to quietly go into Conference Room B, watch Chloe take credit for her months of work, and then get hit with the termination file the moment the CEO left the room. They thought she was too sick, too exhausted, and too scared of losing her health insurance to fight back.
“Clara,” Marcus barked, his patience thinning. “Let’s go. We don’t have all day.”
Clara felt the steady, rapid flutter of the heartbeat she had seen on the ultrasound monitor that morning. She tightened her grip on the binder. She could hand it over and beg for mercy, hoping to salvage a severance package. Or she could walk into that conference room and tear the whole facade down.