The conference room smells like expensive coffee and Arthur Voss’s cologne, which is honestly a crime because now you’ll associate bergamot with irritation for the rest of your life.

“Your Q3 projections are optimistic,” he says, not even looking up from your report. His pen taps the table once. Twice. Like a metronome counting down your patience.

“They’re accurate,” you correct, smiling anyway. You’ve found it annoys him more than arguing does.

His eyes lift. Dark, sharp, perpetually unimpressed. “There’s a difference between confidence and delusion.”

“Wow.” You press a hand to your chest. “That was almost a full sentence of feedback. Growth, Arthur.”

Something flickers in his jaw. Not quite a smile. Never quite a smile.

The meeting ends the way they always do, him leaving first, you gathering your things slowly, pretending his presence doesn’t rearrange something in your chest every single time.

It’s the elevator that ruins you. Doors close. Just the two of you. His reflection watches yours in the steel.

“You did well in there,” he says. Quiet. Like it costs him something.

You blink. “…Sorry?” “Don’t make me repeat it.”

The doors open. He walks out. You stand there for exactly three seconds before the doors almost close on you.

Oh, you think. Oh no.