I didn’t take Rachel Morgan’s seat in one dramatic moment. I took it the way rot takes wood—quietly, patiently, from the inside out.
We worked at Brightwell Media, a mid-size marketing firm in Chicago where titles mattered more than sleep. Rachel was Director of Strategy—smart, blunt, respected. I was her Senior Manager, Samantha “Sam” Reed, the “reliable” one who never raised my voice and always stayed late. Rachel used to tell people, “Sam’s the kind of person you want in a storm.” I smiled every time she said it, and I meant it like a promise.
Then the promotion opened: VP of Client Growth.
Rachel was the obvious choice. She had the relationships. She had the results. And she had something I didn’t: a reputation too clean to suspect.
I told myself I deserved it more. I told myself I’d carried her team for years. I told myself Rachel was “difficult,” and the company needed someone “easier.” Those were the words I used when I started doing what I’m not proud of.
I began with one sentence in a Monday meeting.
Rachel pointed at the Q2 forecast and said, “These numbers don’t match what Finance sent.”
I leaned back, sighed lightly, and said, “She’s been… a little scattered lately. Maybe we should simplify the deck.”
Silence. Not because I’d shouted—because I hadn’t. My tone was gentle, concerned, almost protective. That’s what made it stick.
After that, I started planting tiny doubts in the safest places: hallway chats, Slack threads, “quick check-ins” with leaders. I never accused. I only wondered.
“Do you think Rachel’s stretched too thin?”
“Has she been short with you lately?”
“I’m worried she’s burning out.”
I also learned how to make her look inconsistent without touching her actual work.
If Rachel sent a message, I’d “summarize” it later with a slightly different meaning. If she gave a direction in a meeting, I’d follow up privately with her team: “Just to clarify what Rachel meant…” Then I’d steer things toward my version.
Rachel noticed, of course. She confronted me in a glass conference room one evening, the city lights behind her like a backdrop.
“Why are people suddenly acting weird around me?” she asked. “What did you say?”
I widened my eyes. “Me? Nothing. I’ve been defending you.”
She studied me for a long second, then said quietly, “You’re lying.”
I smiled like I was hurt. “Rachel, you’re stressed. Please don’t turn on me too.”
The next week, I volunteered to “help” with her biggest account—NorthPeak Health—because their renewal would decide the VP role. Rachel agreed, because she trusted me.
That’s when I made my move.
Two days before the client pitch, I emailed the final deck to the executive team—from my account—with Rachel’s name in the subject line, and I attached the wrong version: an older draft with outdated pricing.
Then I waited.
The pitch began with Rachel at the front of the room, confident, clicking through slides—until the NorthPeak CFO frowned and said, “This isn’t what we discussed.”
Rachel’s face tightened. She turned toward the screen, scrolling fast, confused.
And behind her, I watched the room’s trust crack—one silent expression at a time.
Part 2
The air in the conference room felt suddenly thinner, like someone had turned down the oxygen.
Rachel’s voice stayed calm, but I could hear the strain. “I apologize,” she said to the NorthPeak team. “Let me pull up the correct version.”
She clicked. Opened her folder. Nothing matched what was on the screen.
The CEO of Brightwell, Miles Carter, leaned forward. “Rachel,” he said quietly, “is this your final deck?”
Rachel’s jaw tightened. “No,” she said. “It’s an old draft.”
I kept my face neutral, concerned. I leaned in just enough to look helpful. “Want me to send what I have?” I offered, like a lifeline.
Rachel shot me a look—sharp, suspicious. “Yes,” she said, clipped.
I forwarded the correct deck immediately, acting like I’d saved the day. The pitch recovered, but the damage didn’t. NorthPeak’s CFO stayed polite, yet colder. Brightwell’s leadership stayed quiet, yet watchful.
After the client left, the room emptied in a strange silence. Rachel stood by the table, hands flat on the wood, staring at the screen like it had betrayed her.
Miles didn’t look angry. That would’ve been easier. He looked disappointed.
“Rachel,” he said, “I need to understand how this happened.”
Rachel turned to me. “Sam helped with the deck,” she said. “She saw the final file.”
Every muscle in my body wanted to flinch. I didn’t.
I softened my voice. “I only reviewed,” I said. “Rachel owned the final send.”
Rachel’s head snapped toward me. “Excuse me?”
I held her gaze and said gently, “I’m not blaming you. I’m just saying… you were the one distributing it.”
The sentence was perfectly crafted. It sounded factual. It sounded fair. It sounded like I was protecting the company, not attacking her.
Rachel’s face flushed. “You emailed an old draft,” she hissed, stepping closer. “I didn’t send that.”
Miles looked between us. “Did you send it, Sam?”
I shook my head immediately, eyes wide. “No. I didn’t. I swear.”
Rachel’s voice broke—not into tears, into pure frustration. “Then how did it get to leadership?”
I shrugged slightly, as if the question was tragic but unanswerable. “Maybe you attached the wrong file by accident,” I said. “It happens. You’ve been under a lot of pressure.”
That phrase again—under a lot of pressure—landed like a stamp. It didn’t accuse her of incompetence. It gave everyone permission to believe she might be slipping.
Rachel stared at me like she was seeing my face for the first time. “You did this,” she whispered.
I leaned in, just enough for her to hear me without anyone else catching it. “Prove it,” I murmured, still smiling.
The next day, whispers spread faster than emails. People stopped looping Rachel into decisions. They double-checked her numbers without telling her. When she walked into the kitchen, conversations lowered.
Then HR scheduled a “support meeting” about stress management. Not for the team—for Rachel.
In Miles’s office, I listened through the glass as he said, “We want to help you succeed, Rachel. But we need stability.”
Rachel walked out pale, eyes bright with anger. She passed my desk without stopping.
And ten minutes later, Miles called me into his office alone.
He didn’t offer me the VP role—yet.
He said something that made my stomach flip with victory and dread at the same time:
“Sam, if Rachel can’t hold this together… I need someone ready to step in.”
Part 3
I told Miles exactly what he wanted to hear.
“I care about Rachel,” I said. “I want her to be okay. But I care about the company too.”
That sentence made me sound loyal, not hungry.
Two weeks later, NorthPeak renewed—barely. Miles praised the “team effort” in an all-hands meeting, then announced a temporary change: Rachel would take a “short reset” and I would lead Strategy “in the interim.”
Rachel didn’t argue in public. She just sat there, still, like her body was present and her trust had already left the building.
After the meeting, she cornered me near the elevators. Her voice was low, controlled, terrifyingly calm.
“I found it,” she said.
My heart dipped. “Found what?”
Rachel pulled out her phone and showed me an IT ticket log: a record of my laptop requesting access to the archived folder where the old deck lived—timestamped the night before the pitch.
“It’s not proof you emailed it,” she said. “But it’s proof you went looking.”
I forced a small laugh. “Rachel, I was searching for reference materials. You’re spiraling.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t do that,” she said. “Don’t diagnose me because you’re guilty.”
For the first time, I felt something close to fear—not because she’d caught me, but because she sounded like someone who had stopped caring about being liked.
“I’m meeting with Compliance,” she continued. “And I’m filing a complaint.”
I kept my voice soft, steady. “Do what you need to do,” I said. “I hope you feel better soon.”
She flinched at the words—feel better—as if I’d slapped her politely.
Three days later, HR called me in. Tanya-from-HR energy, the careful tone, the same folder-on-table posture.
They asked questions. I answered smoothly. I played the role I’d rehearsed: cooperative, concerned, confused.
But the company didn’t want a scandal. They wanted quiet. Rachel’s complaint didn’t explode—it dissolved into “insufficient evidence,” “process improvements,” “team restructuring.”
Rachel resigned a month later.
And then I sat in her chair—same glass office, same view, same calendar invites flooding in like I’d always belonged there.
I thought I’d feel triumphant.
Instead, I felt watched.
Every compliment sounded conditional. Every smile from coworkers felt like it could turn. I’d taught the room how easy it was to flip on someone, and now I lived inside the lesson.
The worst part? Rachel didn’t yell on her way out. She didn’t make a scene. She left one note on my desk, folded cleanly:
“You’ll spend the rest of your career wondering who’s doing to you what you did to me.”
I kept that note. Not as a trophy—more like a mirror I can’t stop looking into.
So here’s my question for you: Is what I did “office politics,” or is it betrayal—no matter the ambition? And if you were Rachel, would you have fought publicly, or walked away like she did?
Drop your take in the comments. I’m curious where you draw the line.
