When I finally solved it, he'd offer a patronizing pat on my shoulder. "Not bad, kid. You're actually somewhat useful."
Jack was the worst offender. His briefing materials became my personal nightmare.
"Alex, this presentation is ugly. You have a good eye—fix the aesthetics."
"Alex, the boss says this report is gibberish. Simplify it. I need it by tomorrow morning."
"Alex, this data is a mess. Build me an analysis chart. Make it pretty and convincing."
His demands were always urgent, difficult, and tedious.
And somehow, I always finished them.
Relying on my polished reports, Jack cultivated a reputation for "meticulous thinking and outstanding articulation" in front of leadership.
The irony was suffocating. When these projects succeeded—when the champagne popped and the bonuses were distributed—I remained a ghost.
They congratulated each other, discussing which high-end restaurant to book for the team dinner. Occasionally, someone would glance at me in the corner and offer a token acknowledgment.
"Alex worked hard too."
That was it.
My name never appeared on the bonus list. My hard work was compensated with cheap, verbal platitudes.
Willow wasn't blind. She knew.