Chapter 16
Against all odds, I’m sitting at my desk, reading through the mountain of emails I missed while I was away, and no one knows I’m an omega.
I thought for sure when Mark from HR closed the door to his office behind me, it was to have privacy for firing me. Or that he’d take one look at me and somehow know about my new designation.
When neither of those things happened, I was certain he’d ask me for documentation for my medical emergency.
But he didn’t, instead giving the usual sympathetic pleasantries you say to someone who’s been sick.
I was so surprised and nervous that I asked him point-blank if he wanted a doctor’s note.
Mark waved me off, saying if it were going to be an ongoing issue, he’d need me to get my doctor to fill out short-term medical leave paperwork.
However, because I had plenty of sick days to cover my absence and no prior issues with missing work without giving notice, “we don’t need to bother with all that. ”
Mark’s desire not to deal with extra paperwork is my saving grace. I’ll have to remember to include him in my holiday gift list.
Now I just have to deal with my boss.
Technically, he can’t say shit to me since HR signed off on my absence. That doesn’t keep my stomach from lurching when a chat pops up from him an hour into my day.
I close my eyes and give myself a moment to steel myself before I read it. Which is a mistake, because it fills my lungs with Rick’s cloying floral scent.
Apparently, the alpha that shares an office with me doesn’t bother with using a scent neutralizer. Between that and the fluorescent overhead lights, I know I’ll have a migraine by the end of the day.
I exhale and open my eyes back up to read the message.
R. Marlowe: I don’t know if you’ve seen the emails yet, but I covered the press release for Smithfield and will handle their account going forward.
So don’t bother trying to catch up on those tasks.
Make sure you don’t miss the call with DesigNation at 2.
They’ll need you to give them a rundown on the statement they’re making on Friday.
I glare at the monitor as I read the message for a second time. Is he serious?
I’m sure HR has notified him I was out for medical reasons, but there’s no “glad to see you back in the office” or “hope you’re feeling better today.
” Just a “fuck you for missing work; I’ve taken away your biggest client as a punishment.
” Oh, and now you’re working with one of our most annoying clients, and even though you haven’t interacted with them in months, you better be ready to meet with them the same day you’ve returned from being out for a week.
What an absolute piece of shit.
I shouldn’t have expected anything different.
Mr. Marlowe has been our department head for a little over a year, and I can’t think of a single time when he was nice to me.
He’s cold and critical, and I’d be fine with that if he treated everyone that way, but he doesn’t.
He’s not the friendliest alpha in general, but at least he acknowledges my coworkers when they’ve done a good job.
Meanwhile, it’s crickets when I accomplish things.
Not that I need his praise. I do a good job because I get satisfaction from my work. Still, that doesn’t mean I’m unbothered by his behavior toward me. Especially because before this unexpected absence, I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m great at my job and I get shit done on time, if not early.
When I first noticed his rude, avoidant behavior, I comforted myself with the thought that it was run-of-the-mill misogyny. Turns out that’s not it, because he compliments Lauren’s work, and when Janice moved to our department, he called out her wins, too.
I’ve spent way too much time trying to figure it out, and the best I can come up with is that he doesn’t like fat women or he hates redheads, because those are the only things that set me apart from everyone else in our department.
And now I’ve finally given him a reason to justify his distaste for me. Dammit.
Angry tears burn my eyes, and I glance over my shoulder to make sure Rick is absorbed in his call and won’t notice as I wipe them away.
My coworker has three omega daughters and if I start crying at work—a first for me, despite how stressful this job is—he might figure out what’s different about me now.
I have no idea how to respond to my boss.
Do I argue about losing the Smithfield account, or will that 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 my designation.
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 office as 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.
The door creaks open, and thank god it’s a soft voice instead of my boss’ deep, cold one. “Camille? Are you okay?”