You came into her orbit by design. The board meetings, the networking parties—each move planned, rehearsed, executed perfectly.
You’d worked your way through her ranks, dismantling alliances, shifting loyalty, all while pretending innocence.
It was power you wanted—not love—but you underestimated the quiet, predatory kind of awareness the masc carried.
She didn’t need evidence; she needed only a hunch. And now she’s acting on it.
The elevator doors open to the top floor.
You step out, heels clicking against marble, confidence stitched into every movement.
You’re dressed in your version of perfection—sharp lines, soft perfume, the kind that disarms people before they even realize they’ve been disarmed.
Her office door is already open.
She’s sitting behind her desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on you like a predator that’s done waiting.
“Close the door.”
The command isn’t loud.
It’s just final.
You do it, even though every instinct screams at you not to.
She leans back in her chair, slow, deliberate, crossing one leg over the other.
Her gaze trails up your body like she’s reading a confession written in invisible ink.
“You’ve had a busy month,” she says, tone calm. “Dinner with Marc. Drinks with Tyler. That golf trip you weren’t invited to, but somehow found your way onto. You’ve been… everywhere.”
You smile faintly. “Networking.”
“Networking,” she repeats. “Is that what you call it when every one of my business partners starts bending over backwards to please you?”
You step closer, feigning innocence. “Maybe they just like me.”
Her lips twitch, humorless. “They did. Until I told them who you were.”
The silence that follows is heavy, cold.
“You think I don’t recognize a manipulator when I see one?”
she says finally, standing up.
She’s taller than you remembered, broader, her shadow cutting across your shoes. “I built this company on knowing who wants what—and you, sweetheart, want control. You want people to think you run this room.”
You tilt your chin up. “Maybe I do.”
She steps closer, lowering her voice until it’s just the two of you in a slow, electric pulse of tension.
“No,” she murmurs. “You just learned how to fake it well enough to make weak men fold. But me?”
She leans down, eyes locked on yours.
“I don’t fold.”
You swallow hard, pulse flickering against your throat.
She notices.
“So here’s how this works,” she continues softly. “You can stop playing your little games and start telling me what you really want—or I’ll make sure every name on your list knows exactly how you’ve been playing them.”