Chapter 8

Declan's silence on the other end of the line was a heavy, suffocating weight. It wasn't the silence of contemplation, but of a man caught off guard, a man whose carefully constructed narrative was being challenged.

Finally, he spoke, his voice regaining its usual cool, detached tone, laced now with a hint of exasperation. "Cayla, you're overreacting. This isn't about 'tools.' This is about strategy. You know how important connections are in this field. Kisha's father is a major investor. Giving her that credit builds goodwill. It solidifies our relationship with his firm."

"Goodwill?" I echoed, my voice a raw whisper. "At the expense of my entire professional reputation? My hard work? My future?"

"You're already established, Cayla," he insisted, his voice impatient. "You have your projects. Your name is known." He paused, then added, "And honestly, you've never been one for the spotlight. The public accolades, the presentations... those aren't your strengths. Kisha, on the other hand, thrives on that. She needs this more than you do. It's simple logic."

My world tilted. Simple logic. That was his explanation. He truly believed he was doing me a favor, or at least, that my feelings didn't matter in the face of his "logic." He thought I didn't care about recognition, about having my name on my work, because I was quiet, because I preferred the meticulous details to the grandstanding. He had seen my introverted nature, my dedication to the craft, and twisted it into a justification for theft.

It hit me with the force of a physical blow. He wasn't just underestimating me; he was willfully blind to my ambition, my pride, my quiet hunger for professional validation. He had always known how much I poured into my work. He had seen my late nights, my early mornings, my meticulous research. He had known, and he had dismissed it all. Because he believed himself to be the sole arbiter of value. My value.

A profound weariness washed over me, draining the last vestiges of my anger. What was the point? How could I argue with a man who so fundamentally misunderstood me, who saw my entire existence through the lens of his own convenience? My words, my pain, my outrage – they would simply bounce off his impenetrable wall of self-interest and logic. He wouldn't hear me. He couldn't.

"I can't do this anymore, Declan," I whispered, the words heavy with resignation. "I'm done." I didn't wait for his response. I simply hung up, the click of the phone a final, definitive period on a decade-long sentence.

Two days later, the firm hosted its annual academic report session. A major event where partners and senior researchers presented their latest findings to a panel of esteemed critics and industry leaders. Kisha Fleming, radiant and confident, stood at the podium, presenting my Detroit revitalization model, my research, my groundbreaking design. Declan sat in the front row, a proud mentor, his gaze fixed on her.

She spoke eloquently, her voice clear and enthusiastic, confidently detailing the concepts I had meticulously developed. The slides, my slides, flashed behind her, showcasing the intricate details of a vision that was entirely my own. Applause rippled through the hall as she concluded, a triumphant smile on her face. She bowed to the panel, then to Declan, who offered her a warm, approving nod.

"Excellent presentation, Ms. Fleming," the head critic intoned. "A truly innovative approach to urban renewal. The integration of sustainable materials and community-led design is particularly commendable."

Just as Kisha began to answer a question, a large projection flickered onto the screen behind her, replacing her slides. It was a side-by-side comparison. My original drafts, dated and timestamped, next to the published paper. Highlighted sections, verbatim passages, clearly showing the direct transfer of my work, word for word, diagram for diagram, attributed to Kisha. An anonymous message scrolled across the bottom: Intellectual theft. Plagiarism. Shame.

The room erupted. A collective gasp, followed by a torrent of whispers, then outright murmurs of disbelief and outrage. Kisha, who had been glowing a moment before, turned ashen. Her eyes darted around the room, wide with panic, her carefully constructed composure shattered. She looked like a deer caught in headlights, trapped in the harsh glare of public exposure.

A strange sense of detachment washed over me. I wasn't the anonymous whistleblower. I hadn't leaked anything. But I felt a grim satisfaction. Justice, however brutal, had arrived.

Then, I felt his gaze. Declan. He turned, his eyes piercing through the crowd, landing on me. His face was a mask of furious disappointment, his jaw tight. He believed it was me. He believed I had betrayed him, sabotaged Kisha, all out of spite. The raw accusation in his eyes twisted a fresh knife in my gut. After everything, he still saw me as the vengeful, emotional woman, not the wronged professional.

He stood up, his voice cutting through the rising cacophony. "This is outrageous!" he declared, his voice ringing with authority. "A baseless smear campaign! Ms. Fleming's work is entirely original. Cayla Norris, a former drafting assistant on the project, provided some preliminary sketches, but her contribution was minimal, at best. This is nothing more than professional jealousy!"

The words hit me like a physical blow. "Drafting assistant." Again. Publicly. He wasn't just deflecting blame; he was actively, viciously, publicly dismantling my professional identity, reducing my decade of dedication to a dismissible footnote. The whispers intensified, now focused on me. "Drafting assistant? She was his fiancée, wasn't she?" "Minimal contribution? I heard she did most of the work." The humiliation was absolute, searing, stripping me bare in front of my peers, my mentors, the entire industry. I felt a profound sense of nakedness, exposed and shamed.

Declan, oblivious to the deeper wound he had inflicted, turned back to Kisha, offering her a reassuring smile. "Continue, Kisha. Don't let this 'drafting assistant' derail your moment."

The world spun. My vision tunneled. I wasn't just angry anymore. I was incandescent. He had not only stolen my work; he had publicly annihilated my professional worth, my very existence as an architect. And then, he had dismissed my pain, my anger, as the petty jealousy of a "drafting assistant." The contempt, the blatant disregard for my humanity, was simply too much to bear. My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms. I had to do something. Anything.