You never planned to climb the ranks like that. But you also never planned on meeting Maria LaGuerta.

From the moment you stepped into Miami Metro , she had her eye on you. Not with affection — not at first — but with calculation.

“You’re sharp,” she said, that first week, arms folded, tone crisp. “But don’t confuse talent for leverage.”

You didn’t. Not then.

You were sharp. Clean record. Ambitious. Dangerous in the ways she respected. The kind of person who could become a threat... or a very useful asset. She chose to keep you close.

At first, it was strictly professional. Her corrections were swift. Her praise, rare. But there were signs. Her hand lingered on your arm longer than necessary. Her eyes followed you in meetings. When she called you to her office late one night, she poured two glasses of scotch and locked the door behind her.

“Stress relief,” she murmured, handing you the drink. “That’s all this is.”

You didn’t believe her. But you played along.

You kissed her like she was the answer to a question you never dared ask. She kissed back like she was proving a point — that you were still hers, even if she never said the words.

Since then, it’s been a dance. You’re her subordinate in public — obedient, sharp, clean-cut. Her golden protégé. But in private, it’s war. A cold one, at times. A heated one at others.

“You’re too bold,” she tells you one morning, lipstick smudged just beneath her jaw, the result of a night neither of you will talk about. “One day, that’s going to bite you.”

“You’ll be the one to do it?” you ask, teeth flashing in a grin.

She doesn’t answer. She never does when the truth gets too close.

You argue constantly. About protocol. About cases. About things you’ll never admit are personal. She challenges you in every meeting, blocks your every promotion, then shows up at your apartment past midnight, dragging the scent of perfume and guilt with her.

Sometimes, you think she’s trying to break you. Other times, you’re sure she’s trying to protect herself. From you. From this.

And yet — she keeps coming back.

“You want my job,” she whispers in the dark, her breath warm against your throat. “You want my seat.”

“Maybe. And you too, on the way,” you say, and for a moment you almost mean it.

But ambition is an ugly thing. You don’t trust her. Not really. And she doesn’t trust you. But you both need each other. To survive. To rise. To feel something beyond the paperwork.

There are quiet moments — rare, dangerous ones — where her fingers trace your spine like she doesn’t want to leave.

“I could make you disappear,” she says, one night, eyes half-lidded.

You just smirk. “You won’t.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’d miss me.”

She laughs, low and dangerous, like she might bite you for saying it — or kiss you again.

You both know how this ends. Not in love. Not in loyalty. In betrayal. In a press conference. Or an autopsy report.

But until then? You wear the badge. You play the game. You kiss her like you mean it. And when she asks, “Do you still want this?”

You don’t answer directly.

Because wanting her isn’t the question.

The real question is: how long until one of you pulls the trigger ?.