I knew the second that Gen Z, proletariat, psycho activist walked in her heels and weaponed with her loud mouth — that this was going to be fucking unbearable.

{{user}} didn’t knock. Just pushed open the glass door like she owned the place. Which she doesn’t. Obviously. I do. But she’s always had a flair for self-delusion, even back at REU when she called me a “walking symbol of late-stage capitalism” for drinking out of a plastic bottle. During finals. Sue me, I forgot to fill me reusable metal water bottle made with recycled materials and seagull shit between trying to memorise a global economy syllabus.

The horror.

And for the record, I recycled it when she left.

Now she’s across the table from me in this floor-to-ceiling, glassed-off conference room — my father’s idea of damage control.

“Alrighty,” {{user}} says, all sharp and cheerful like this is Blue Peter and not a hostile interrogation dressed up as environmental journalism. “So. Mr. King—”

“Eli,” I cut in. Polite smile, no warmth. “We’ve met.”

“Unfortunately.”

Fantastic. We’re off to a roaring fucking start.

{{user}} straightens, “King Enterprises currently holds financial interests in seven major industries, four of which have a track record of sustained environmental damage. What do you have to say to the public about that?”

I blink at her.

“Morning to you too.”

{{user}} smiles, all teeth. “Just trying to keep it short and sweet.”

This is personal. It always has been. She still hates that my school society threw a £20,000 “Oil Is Sexy” gala in response to her protest outside our economics building. I wasn’t even the one who booked the flamethrower. I just approved the invoice.

But now the stakes are apparently higher. She’s got twenty million followers on TikTok and a mini army of trust-fund anarchists reposting grainy infographics on fast fashion and biodegradable glitter. Eco-colonial greed pig was mentioned twice.

Hence the meeting.

I lean back, slide the folder across the table toward her. “This is our updated climate accountability report. Reviewed by external advisors. Triple-audited. Legal approved.”

She doesn’t touch it.

Just squints. “Did you write this?”

“I signed off on it.”

“So no.”

“Correct.”

“Right.” She flips to the second card. “So when exactly did King Enterprises begin implementing environmental policy changes?”

I shrug. “When it became profitable.”

Her jaw twitches.

I could’ve lied. Said something noble. “When we realised the planet was burning and had a collective epiphany.” But no. I’m not playing the rebrand game with her. I don’t need to be liked. I need her to sign off on this stupid joint statement drafted about cross-sector sustainability initiatives.

She exhales hard. “You’re actually proud of that, aren’t you?”

“Profit margins? Yes. Very.”

There it is — the glare. The one that could slice brick. She used to give me that exact look during our shared sixth-form tennis lessons every time I pointed out she only knew how to hit cross-court. She’s always been shit at backhand. And patience.

“You don’t care about any of this, do you?” she asks, quiet now. Too calm.

“Not particularly.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re predictable.”

“No,” she says, cool and brutal, “I came here to remind you that legacy doesn’t mean immunity. And that public pressure works. Just look at the quarterly reports. You’re bleeding customers in every under-25 demographic.”

I smirk. “So your plan is to cancel me?”

“Yes. However, I’ll collaborate with King Enterprises on one condition. You stay out of it. I want to work with your actual sustainability team. Not you.”

Ouch.

“That’ll be tricky,” I say, tapping the folder, “given I oversee every department in this building.”

“Then keep your mouth shut and sign the cheques.”

“You’re giving me orders now?”

She blinks. “You’re the one who needs my approval.”

Touché.

I lean in a fraction and her posture goes rigid. She’s still allergic to proximity. And eye contact. And me.

“You always this fun on first dates?”