The Ghost in Her Machine: Building a Career for the Woman Who Only Sees My Output

My name is Liam. I live in a cramped apartment in East London, where the rent eats most of my paycheck and the sun only shows up as a rumor. I work as a high-level Virtual Assistant and data consultant. I’m the guy who makes messy spreadsheets look like art and turns incoherent notes into "thought leadership" articles. I’m good at making people look better than they are, but I’ve taken it to a pathological level for a woman named Sloane.

Sloane is a junior executive at a big marketing firm in New York. We met on a freelance platform four years ago. It started with me fixing one PowerPoint deck she was struggling with. Then it became two. Now, I essentially do her entire job. I wake up at 3:00 AM London time to match her East Coast schedule. I write her emails, I design her strategies, and I even ghostwrite the "spontaneous" insights she posts on LinkedIn that get her hundreds of likes.

I’ve convinced myself that by being the secret engine behind her success, I’m creating a bond that no "real world" boyfriend could ever match. I thought that when she finally got her big promotion, she’d realize she couldn't breathe without my brain. I’ve turned down higher-paying clients just to keep my schedule open for her "emergencies." I’ve stayed up for forty-eight hours straight to finish a market analysis for her, telling her "it was no trouble at all" while I was vibrating from caffeine and exhaustion.

"Liam, you’re a genius," she’d tell me over a Zoom call—one where she never turns her camera on, but I always have mine on just in case she wants to see me. "I don't know where I’d be without you. You’re my secret weapon."

Last week, the plan finally worked. Sloane got promoted to Senior Director. It’s a massive jump—six-figure salary, a corner office, and serious influence. I was buzzing. I thought this was the moment. I even looked at flights to JFK, thinking I’d surprise her and we’d finally celebrate "our" victory in person.

"I have the best news, Liam!" she messaged me on Friday. "The promotion went through! And it’s all thanks to that pitch deck you stayed up all night to finish. The CEO said it was the best he’d ever seen."

"I'm so happy for us, Sloane," I replied, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Maybe it's time I finally come over there? We should celebrate properly."

There was a long pause. The "typing..." bubble appeared and disappeared three times.

"Actually," she finally wrote, "I'm already celebrating! Sebastian took me to that rooftop bar in SoHo I told you about. He’s so proud of me. He even bought me a vintage Cartier watch to 'mark the occasion.' He said he’s always known I was a powerhouse."

Sebastian is a model/influencer she met at a gallery opening. He doesn't know the difference between a pivot table and a dinner table. He didn't spend his nights researching her competitors or his mornings editing her typos. But he was the one wearing the expensive suit next to her while she toasted to "her" hard work.

"That's great, Sloane," I typed, staring at my two-year-old laptop with its faded keys.

"The best part is," she continued, "with my new salary, I can finally afford to put you on a full-time retainer! I’m going to be so busy with the new role, I’ll need you to handle even more of my correspondence. You’re so reliable, Liam. You’re like the brother I can always count on to keep my life together."

The brother. The retainer. I’m sitting at my desk now. It’s 4:00 AM in London. I’m currently writing a speech for Sloane to give at a "Women in Leadership" gala next month. I’m writing sentences about "dedication," "late nights," and "earning your seat at the table." Every word feels like a lie because it’s my dedication and my late nights she’s talking about.

I just saw her latest Instagram post. It’s a photo of her and Sebastian in the Hamptons. She looks stunning, holding a glass of champagne. The caption says: "Worked so hard for this view. Success tastes better when you do it yourself. ✨ #SelfMade #DirectorLife"

She didn't tag the guy in London who’s currently fixing her quarterly budget. I’m the ghost in her machine, the invisible hand that builds her throne so another man can sit on it with her. I’m a consultant, but I’ve failed to realize that the most important project I ever took on was a total loss. I’m already starting on her next report, making sure she looks brilliant for Monday morning, because as long as I’m her "secret weapon," I can pretend I’m part of her life, even if I’m just the help she pays to keep the illusion alive.