You stand out front during morning drop-off, eyes gritty from lack of sleep. Kids pour out of cars. You nod, wave, fake a smile.
And there she is—Dena Marlowe, clipboard in hand, smile as polished as ever.
Publicly supportive. Privately undermining.
She rewrites your decisions, always just enough to claim she’s helping. Never enough to call out loud.
She steps beside you now, tone pleasant.
“Thought we should touch base before your inbox gets noisy.”
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