Hello Readers, throwaway for obvious reasons—this could still reach people from that company, and I’m not ready for the fallout. I’ve been out of that job for four months now, and the guilt still wakes me up at night. In October 2025, my coworker and closest work friend got promoted to the role I’d been gunning for. The celebration toast should have been bittersweet for me, but instead it exposed a lie I’d helped her cover for two years—a lie that rewrote our entire friendship and made me realize I’d been complicit in something that hurt other people, including myself. That promotion didn’t just change her career. It ended mine at that company and forced me to face how far I’d gone to protect someone I thought was my friend.
I’m 33F, former senior marketing manager at a fast-growing consumer tech company in San Francisco. I’d been there seven years—started as a coordinator, took on every tough project, mentored juniors, consistently over-delivered. By 2025 I was leading our biggest brand campaign, managing a team of four, in line for director. The company was “cool”—open office, unlimited PTO, stock options, the kind of place people bragged about on LinkedIn.
My coworker—“Jenna”—34F, was a senior product manager. We joined around the same time, bonded instantly over shared frustrations with the bro-culture early days. We became inseparable: happy hours, weekend brunches, group trips, crisis texting at 2 a.m. when a launch went wrong. She was at my wedding; I was maid of honor at hers. We told each other everything—or so I thought.
The lie started in 2023.
Jenna was up for a big promotion—senior PM to director of product. She was talented, but the role required demonstrated leadership on a cross-functional launch. Her resume was strong, but one key project she claimed full ownership of—the relaunch of our flagship app in 2022—was actually led by “Marcus,” a junior PM who’d quietly carried it while Jenna was on maternity leave for part of it.
Marcus got overlooked for credit (common in our company for juniors). Jenna got the glory.
I knew because I’d been on the marketing side of that launch—I saw the late nights Marcus pulled, the decks he built, the client calls he ran when Jenna was out.
After the launch succeeded, Jenna updated her internal bio and performance review: “Led end-to-end relaunch of flagship app, resulting in 40% user growth.”
Not exactly true.
One night over wine, she confessed: “I feel a little guilty taking full credit, but Marcus is young—he’ll have more chances. I need this promotion now. I’m the breadwinner since Chris lost his job.”
I sympathized—she was stressed, new mom, husband unemployed.
I said, “It’s not ideal, but it’s how the game works sometimes. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
She promised she wouldn’t.
I helped her prep for the director interview—coached her on talking points, even role-played tough questions.
She got the promotion.
Marcus got a “great job” pat on the back and a small bonus.
No one corrected the record.
I told myself it was a one-time thing. Survival in corporate.
2024: Jenna thrived as director. More responsibility, bigger team, visible to execs.
She leaned on me constantly—borrowed my slides, asked me to “polish” her presentations, run interference with my marketing team when her timelines slipped.
I did it—because friends help friends.
Marcus left the company quietly—said he “wanted new challenges.”
I felt a twinge but pushed it down.
2025: the VP of Product role opened—the one above Jenna’s director spot.
Both Jenna and “Ryan” (another director, 35M, solid but unflashy) were in the running.
Jenna panicked privately to me: “Ryan’s going to get it. He’s got that ‘executive presence’ the CEO loves. I need an edge.”
She asked me to “vouch” for her in my review channels—emphasize her leadership on past launches.
I did—wrote a glowing endorsement, highlighted the 2022 app relaunch as “Jenna’s vision.”
She got the VP promotion in October 2025.
Big announcement, all-hands celebration, champagne toast.
I clapped, smiled, posted congratulations on Slack.
Inside, the twinge was louder.
That night, the company threw a party for her at a rooftop bar.
Speeches, cheers.
Jenna’s toast: “I couldn’t have done this without my ride-or-die, Alex. She’s been my secret weapon from day one.”
Everyone turned to me, clapping.
I smiled, raised my glass.
But I felt sick.
Because in that moment, I realized: I’d helped build her career on a foundation that wasn’t entirely hers.
And I’d stayed silent when others—like Marcus—got erased.
The next week, Ryan pulled me aside.
“I heard you vouched hard for Jenna. Did you know she took full credit for my Q1 initiative too? I have the emails.”
I didn’t.
He showed me.
Jenna had claimed ownership of Ryan’s work in her VP packet.
I confronted her privately.
She cried: “It’s not stealing—it’s positioning. Everyone does it. You helped me with the app launch thing—don’t act innocent.”
I said, “That was different. Marcus was junior. Ryan’s your peer.”
She got defensive: “If I don’t advocate for myself, no one will. You’re jealous because I got VP and you’re still manager.”
I wasn’t up for VP—that was product, not marketing.
But the accusation stung.
I went to my boss: “I need to correct some past endorsements.”
He looked uncomfortable: “It’s water under the bridge. Jenna’s delivering. Let’s not stir things up.”
No one wanted the truth.
I started job hunting.
Landed a director role at a competitor—better title, higher pay.
Gave notice in November.
Jenna: “You’re leaving because of me?”
I said, “I’m leaving because I can’t work somewhere that rewards rewriting history.”
She cried, said I was abandoning her.
Some coworkers sided with her: “You’re being dramatic. It’s corporate—everyone puffs up their resume.”
Others ghosted me.
Exit interview: I told HR everything.
They nodded, “We’ll look into promoting integrity.”
Jenna still has her VP job.
I’m at the new company—happy, honest work, no fake alliances.
But I lost the friend I thought I had.
And I lost respect for the version of myself who helped cover the lie.
My coworker’s promotion exposed a lie I helped cover.
It wasn’t just hers.
It was mine too.
I’m not proud.
But I’m done being complicit.
If you’ve ever “helped” someone bend the truth at work—ask yourself why.
Because one day, the bill comes due.
And it’s heavier than you think.
Thanks for reading. I needed to confess this somewhere.
