You realize something important: you can't save this project. But you can save yourself.
You become a documentation machine. Every decision gets an email summary. Every risk gets logged in the risk register with detailed mitigation plans that you know won't be approved. Every meeting gets minutes with action items and owners.
When the CTO says "the CEO is committed to six months," you send a follow-up email: "Per our discussion, confirming that despite the recommendation for 18-month timeline based on vendor estimates and resource constraints, leadership has decided to proceed with 6-month delivery. Acknowledging the elevated risk profile. Happy to discuss mitigation strategies."
The CTO doesn't respond. But it's in writing now.
Every time scope creeps, you document it. Every time a dependency slips, you log it. Every time a stakeholder adds requirements, you update the change log and send impact assessments that nobody reads.
Your team thinks you're bureaucratic. The CTO thinks you're "process-heavy." You don't care.
Month 4: The project is clearly failing. You have a folder of documentation showing exactly why, exactly when you raised concerns, exactly what mitigation you proposed, and exactly who made which decisions.
Month 6: Project Phoenix crashes spectacularly. 30% of scope delivered. Major bugs. Angry clients.
The post-mortem meeting is scheduled. The CTO starts with "execution challenges." You calmly present your documentation.
"I raised timeline concerns on Day 1. Here's the email. I escalated to leadership in Week 2. Here's the meeting notes. I documented 47 scope changes, none of which received timeline adjustments. Here's the change log."
The room goes quiet.
The project is still dead. But your reputation survives. Six months later, you're leading a different initiative. The CTO is... no longer with the company.