Page 48 of Feeling the Heat: Part One
I have no idea how to respond to my boss.
Do I argue about losing the Smithfield account, or willthat piss him off?
Should I tell him that running a call for a client I don’t usually work with wouldn’t be a great idea, or will he use that as a sign of my incompetence?
More frustrated tears spill down my cheeks, and my clothes feel too tight. Everything is too bright and smelly and loud, and all I want to do is go back home and hide in bed.
Dots appear in the chat window to indicate that my boss is typing. Not wanting him to be pissy that I took more than thirty seconds to reply to him, I grit my teeth and send a response.
C. Clairmont: I’ll be ready for the call.
I almost leave it at that, but I can’t just sit here and accept this. I’ve worked too hard on the Smithfield account to give it up.
C. Clairmont: With all due respect, I have to protest my removal from the Smithfield account. I was the one who convinced them to go with our firm and they’ve been extremely pleased with my work in the three years I’ve been the lead on their account. Throwing away that established rapport because I had a medical emergency is unnecessary. I’m sure they’ll understand if I explain the extenuating circumstances to them and apologize.
Despite how nauseous sending that message makes my omega, I do it anyway. I won’t give up years of work because my boss is an ass and my body betrayed me.
There’s an excruciating minute where I stare at the screen, watching the three dots appear and disappear. At least it gives me time to compose myself and wipe away my angry tears before anyone notices them.
R. Marlowe: We can reassess in a few months when you’ve proven that your health won’t further interfere with meeting crucial deadlines.
C. Clairmont: I assure you that it won’t happen again. It’d be more work to reassign someone who is unfamiliar with their account and set back the planning schedule for their upcoming launch event.
I want to say that it’s also more work to give me an account I know nothing about rather than keeping it with whoever was working it previously, but I restrain myself.
R. Marlowe: I understand your frustration. However, we need to think of the client above everything else. You have no way of guaranteeing you won’t have another sudden, unplanned absence and I’ve already had to smooth things over with them once. It can’t happen again.
There’s a moment where I consider saying “fuck it” to my plan to conceal my new designation and tell my boss, that I can in fact guarantee that because my medical absence was for my heat and I’ll have medication to prevent issues with that going forward. It’d feel so good to not so subtly warn him that heat leave is legally protected and taking away a client is illegal designation-based discrimination that I could sue the company for.
I almost do it. God, I want to do it. But if he’s this much of an asshole to me already, I can only imagine how much worse it will be if my boss knows I’m an omega. He’ll find excuses to take me off of all my big accounts. He’s smart enough to find a way to frame those decisions as something unrelated to mydesignation.
And it wouldn’t just be an issue with him. How do I know that the alphas running the show over at Smithfield would want me on their account if they knew I was an omega?
Dammit.I want to smash my fists against the keyboard. I want to go up to my boss’ office and give him a piece of my mind. Call him out on all his bullshit and ask him why he hates me so much.
Instead, I send a curt reply.
C. Clairmont: I understand. The client matters the most.
He doesn’t respond.
Why would he? He got what he wanted.
I spend the next few hours busting my ass to learn all the details about DesigNation and their most recent PR nightmare thanks to their alphahole of a CEO. For a man who runs a business that purportedly champions providing equal opportunities for all designations, he sure seems to not respect omegas.
And now I get to be the one working with him directly. Delightful.
The call with him and his team goes about as well as could be expected. He talks over me half the time, but is happy enough with my proposed statement to mitigate some of the blowback from his actions. Not that, according to the odious man, he did anything wrong.
By the time the call is over, I’m shaky and lightheaded, both from the agitation and from working through lunch to make sure I was prepared.
I still have so much to catch up on, so I stay at my desk and work through my emails, managing to get through the bulk of them despite my throbbing head, hunger, and the ever-increasing scent of potpourri as Rick’s scent saturates our officeas the day goes on.
By the time five o’clock rolls around, my vision is too spotty and wavering for me to make any sense of what’s on my computer screen. Rick heads out to go take his girls to their various sports and dance classes, and the second he closes our office door behind him, I slump forward onto my desk, all the fatigue and discomfort catching up to me at once.
My omega lets out a pathetic whine that I wholeheartedly agree with, but I cut it off when there’s a sharp rap on my door.
I groan and try to sit back up. If it’s my boss, and the moment he deigned to come check on me is right when I’m trying not to pass out or puke, I’m going to scream.
