Chapter 2

As I passed through the hallway back to my desk, I heard whisperers.

“Why is she always the one included in client pitches? She doesn’t know anything.”

"Who knows, right? Pia is actually good. I don’t know what’s up with Sir Tirso either."

“God, she couldn’t even defend her concept earlier. Cringe.”

"I was the one feeling embarrassed for her."

I felt so small. It felt like no matter how much effort I put into work every day, there was always something wrong dragging me down.

I silently continued, not looking back, forcing myself to believe it was nothing.

"Irene."

I looked toward the person calling me. It was Marge, Tirso’s secretary, standing by her desk.

"What is it?"

“Sir is calling for you.”

Automatically, I walked toward Tirso’s glass office. I could already feel the tension even before stepping inside.

I knocked three times because that was one of his rules that had to be followed.

“Come in.”

I silently entered his office, clutching the clipboard I had earlier. I closed my eyes for a moment before standing in front of his desk.

He didn’t even bother looking at me at first, just flipping through the printed deck I presented a while ago.

"Sit."

His voice was steady, raspy, and full of authority. Typical Tirso tone.

I sat down quietly, hesitating at first. I was nervous about what he would say.

“Explain,” he said, eyes finally meeting mine. Sharp and serious, as if smoldering with anger he was barely holding back. “What the hell was that back there?”

I lowered my gaze. “I—”

“I’m not done speaking.”

I stopped. I swallowed my pride, feeling my fingers tremble against the clipboard.

“Do you even understand the brand?” he continued. “You stood there like a deer in headlights. No conviction, no spine. I had to save your ass again.”

I felt crushed. “I tried my best—”

“Then your best isn’t good enough.”

It felt like a slap to the face. I’ve received many painful words from him, but this was different. He wasn't just attacking the work. It felt like he was attacking my whole being.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’ll revise it. Tonight.”

He scoffed. “Not tonight. Now. I want a new deck before five. If you can’t even do that, maybe you’re in the wrong field.”

I couldn't help but look up at him. I clenched my fist in frustration.

“I know I messed up,” I said softly. “But I’m not clueless. I just... I get nervous, and—”

“Excuses.”

I closed my eyes. It hurt so much. But I couldn't cry in front of him. I couldn't prove to him that he was right about me being in the wrong field.

“I don’t need your best, Irene. I need results," he said heavily. “You can’t even defend your work. You’re like a child. Do you know that? It’s embarrassing."

I froze at what he said. "I—"

“Why the hell didn’t you prepare? You had four days.”

“I did. I worked overnight. I just—”

“You just what?” He stood up and approached me. “You just hoped someone else would save you again? That I’d jump in last minute and clean your mess?"

I let out a sigh, feeling my body tremble. “I’m trying, Sir.”

“No. You’re barely surviving. This isn’t about trying. This is about whether you’re actually meant to be here.”

"So you think I don't belong here?" I couldn't help but snap back. He was crossing the line.

“Do you?” He turned his back, walked to the glass wall of the office, and stared at the city view with his hands in his pockets. “You walk around like a ghost. People talk, and you say nothing. You present work like you don’t believe in it. And when people laugh behind your back, you pretend not to hear it.”

My throat tightened. I swallowed hard, but the lump remained.

“You have no backbone, Irene,” he added in a deeper voice. “You want to be in this industry? Then act like you deserve it.”

I was hurt, wrecked at his words. But instead of crying, I looked at him directly.

"You think I don't know that? You think I don't hear them? Every whisper. Every laugh. Every side-eye whenever I enter the room. I know, Sir. I’m not blind. I’m not deaf. And it’s not my job to explain myself to them."

He went silent. For a few seconds, neither of us said a word.

"I'm not asking for special treatment," I continued, voice trembling. "I just want a chance. One real chance. Without people assuming that I’m only here out of pity or because you’re favoring me."

He looked at me again. "Then prove it."

"I am."

"No, you're not. You're apologizing for existing."

“Because maybe I feel like I have to,” I whispered. “Every single day.”

“Fix yourself, Irene,” he finally said, softer but still cold. “Because I won’t always be around to do it for you.”

I nodded and stood up. Still holding the clipboard that had been shaking in my hand the whole time.

“Noted, Sir.”

And before I could leave, he followed up. “And one more thing.”

I looked back. His face wasn't as serious anymore, but he didn't smile either. It was like... he was thinking of something else.

“Your copy for the next pitch, do better. Because if you mess this up again… I won’t save it.”

“I’ll get it done,” I said firmly. “And I’ll make sure you won’t have to save my ass again.”

For the first time, his expression cleared. “We’ll see.”

When I stepped out of his office, I let out a breath. Not because of the shame, but because of the weight of every word he threw at me. I knew he had a point. I knew I wasn't perfect. But it really hurts to be told that.

In the hallway, I felt the other employees exchanging glances. Some were avoiding me, some were smirking, and I could hear faint whispers because they knew I had been scolded.

I forced myself to fix my posture. Walk straight. Chin up. Don't show them you're broken, Irene!

But deep down, I wanted to cry. My chest felt so heavy. I wanted to quit. I just wanted to disappear.

I don't understand why he's always angry with me. I'm always wrong in his eyes.

Why doesn't he just fire me?