ALEXANDER'S POV
By the time the meeting started, I was back in command.
Every wall, every mask, every sharp edge that made me who I am — perfectly intact.
The boardroom was filled with suits and silence, the kind that tasted like money and deceit. I thrived in places like this. Cold air. Cold people. Predictable greed.
She sat beside me — poised, professional, and annoyingly composed.
If she was still thinking about this morning, she didn't show it.
Good. Neither did I.
Her voice broke through the low hum of conversation. "The figures for the second quarter indicate—"
"Leave the analysis to me," I cut in without looking at her.
The words came out like ice. Intentional.
A public reminder that this wasn't partnership. It was control.
Her lips pressed together — a tiny flicker of irritation she tried to hide.
I didn't care. I couldn't afford to.
She might've thought she earned a place at this table. She hadn't.
Not yet.
The rest of the meeting went as expected — numbers, reports, strategic lies.
I watched, spoke, commanded. The world returned to its proper shape.
And for a while, it almost felt like she wasn't sitting next to me at all.
But when someone addressed her directly, and she answered with confidence that didn't waver, I caught myself watching again. The way her tone held steady. The way her gaze didn't flinch, even when mine did.
That same fire I swore I'd extinguish the day she walked into my life.
It was infuriating.
When the meeting ended, the room emptied quickly — except for her. She was gathering her files, quiet, efficient, pretending not to notice that I was still standing there.
"Next time," I said, my voice low, "wait for my cue before speaking."
She glanced up, unimpressed. "Next time, try not to interrupt mid-sentence."
The air shifted — sharp, electric.
I stepped closer, my shadow swallowing hers. "You forget your place."
"No," she said, eyes steady on mine. "You just hate that I don't need reminding."
That did it. The edge of control I'd rebuilt all morning cracked just slightly — not enough for her to see, but enough for me to feel it.
I leaned closer, tone precise and cutting. "You might think you've earned a voice here, but remember something — you're still standing on borrowed ground. Mine."
Her breath hitched, but she didn't back down. "Maybe. But even borrowed ground can shift."
For a second, silence.
Then I smiled — cold, humorless. "Careful, darling. Some people don't survive when it does."
I walked past her before she could respond.
Because if I stayed a second longer, I might've said something else — something real. Something I couldn't take back.
The ride back was worse than silence — it was tension made solid.
She stared out the window. I stared straight ahead.
Two ghosts trapped in the same cage.
At a red light, she finally spoke. "You enjoy this, don't you?"
"What?"
"Pushing people until they break."
I didn't turn to her. "It keeps them from trying to push me first."
"That's not strength, Alexander. That's fear."
My jaw flexed. "You mistake strategy for emotion."
"I mistake nothing."
Her voice was calm, but it hit like a blade — quiet, precise, aimed right where it would hurt if I still had a heart to wound.
"Then don't try to understand me," I said flatly. "You'll only waste your time."
She gave a small, humorless laugh. "Trust me, I stopped trying a long time ago."
Good. That made one of us.
When we reached the penthouse, I didn't wait.
I went straight to my office, shutting the door hard enough to make the glass tremble.
I stood there, breathing through the silence, jaw tight.
She thought she could read me. She thought she saw something human left inside me.
She was wrong.
I built this version of myself to survive — the cold, the distance, the control.
It's not armor anymore. It's who I am.
And I'll be damned before I let her make me forget that again.