Page 77 of The Crush of Christmas Past
“No.” I drop into an armchair across from her. “Big launch in six days. My team is off for the holidays, so I’m on fire patrol.”
“Collaborativeandbenevolent,” she teases. “Your team must love you.”
“I don’t know about loving me,” I say dryly, “but they like their jobs. My co-founders and I used all of AdCraft’s bullshit practices as a blueprint for what not to do.” My gaze sharpens. “For example, I like to ensure all our employees areemployedover Christmas.” I narrow my eyes. “Tell me you’re out of a job because you chose to quit.”
Her lips form a thin, humorless smile. “Definechose.”
Every muscle in my body coils tight. I lean forward, forearms braced on my knees. The fury I thought I’d buried when I left comes roaring back. “Isla, what the hell did they do?”
She shrugs one shoulder. It looks casual, but the tension behind it is impossible to miss. “Your exit made me reevaluate my goals. I craved freedom, but since life demanded stability, I couldn’t quit my job. So, I started picking up passion projects. I cleared every side gig with Legal, of course. Just to make sure nothing I did interfered with my contract.”
A chill slides through me.
I know where this is going. And I hate it with every fiber of my being.
“No conflict,” she says. “That didn’t stop them from questioning my loyalty, though. Next thing I knew, I was under a microscope. They touted it as adevelopmental opportunity. You know what that means.”
“Yes,” I bite out. “A plot to micromanage you into the ground.”
I’ve seen this play before. Watched it unfold when one of my partners dared to challenge the ethics of a shady pharma client.
Isla nods, twisting a gold ring around her thumb. “They started leaving me off projects. Always the same excuse:Cross-functional collaboration.” Her eyes harden, warm honey crystalizing into stony amber. “Which apparently stood for passing my accounts to others while I played chair warmer. When my designs showed up in decks with someone else’s name?” She snorts. “Collective team effortis a cute code for theft, don’t you think?”
A lethal dose of rage surges through my veins, but I grit my teeth to prevent myself from interrupting her story.
“Rock bottom hit when they stopped copying me on emails.Simpleoversight.” Her air quotes bleed bitterness. “Repeated endlessly. I missed meetings. Pissed off clients. Got labeled as unprofessional. They turned me into a liability, Theo.”
“The assholes froze you out.” All the while, tanking her reputation.
A reputation I knew, without question, was solid.
“They made my role redundant and the job unbearable until I quit. Since I wasn’ttechnicallyfired, I didn’t qualify for severance. Thoughtful, huh?”
My knuckles crack as I tighten my grasp on the armrests. The leather groans, echoing the pressure building in my chest.
I want to break something. No. I want to breaksomeone.
Isla tracks my movement as I push to my feet. Crossing the space between us, I sink to my knees in front of her. The rug cushions the impact, but I barely register it. I’m too wound up. Too furious. Close enough now that I’m certain she canfeelthe anger thrumming through me.
My hands settle on her thighs, fingers flexing against the soft wool of her dress. “Who?” The demand is too calm for the violence coiled beneath it.
She blinks, coppery lashes fanning against freckled skin. “What?”
“Names, Isla.” My touch tightens. “The prick who slashed you from project rosters. The thief who picked your designs apart before stealing your style. The bastard who made you invisible with those email list omissions.” I drag my hands higher, my tone dropping lower. “Every. Single. One. Down to the fucking intern who forgot your Friday drink order.”
She reels back. “How…” A small frown creases the space between her eyebrows. “How do you know about the coffee snubs?”
“Inferencing skills. Experience.” After all, pettiness is AdCraft’s company policy. “I’ll burn them to the ground, Sunshine. And I won’t even need a match.”
She bites down on her bottom lip, her gaze sharpening with interest. For a moment, I’m certain she’s going to comply and start listing off the assholes one by one.
“Forget it,” she says instead. “It’s not worth it. They’re not worth it.” Her fingers wrap around mine, cool against my overheated skin. “I’ve dealt with it.”
Of course she’s dealt with it. On her own. Like always.
This is a woman who powered through appendicitis until she collapsed in a meeting. Who pushed herself past the breaking point to make a last-minute deadline. And back then, no one was looking out for her.
Least of all me.
