The temporary office suite felt larger, yet somehow more suffocating, than it had the week before. Lila's team had been relocated to the floor below, leaving the glass-walled box—her "War Room"—to serve as the sole headquarters for Project Chimera. And now, as per the new contract clause, it housed two desks.
One was hers, still scattered with the remnants of the all-nighter. The other, an immaculate expanse of dark wood and chrome, had been installed overnight, positioned twenty feet away but feeling like two. It was Ethan Reed's desk.
Lila arrived precisely at 7:30 AM, dressed for battle in a sharp navy suit. She had planned to be the first one in, to establish her territory and her resolve. Ethan was already there.
He wasn't working. He was simply standing by his desk, nursing a mug of coffee, watching the city below. He wore a crisp, white shirt, sleeves precisely rolled to the forearm—a detail that, three years ago, meant he was either about to start coding or about to pull her into his arms. Today, it simply looked like the uniform of a conqueror.
"Good morning, Torres," he said, turning, his voice perfectly level, devoid of yesterday's dramatic edge.
"Mr. Reed," she acknowledged, walking straight to her desk and powering up her laptop. "I trust the transition of team resources was smooth."
"Flawless," he confirmed. "Precision, as you know, is the foundation of my operation."
Lila refused to take the bait. "Then I'll get started on the global integration plan. I suggest we prioritize the APAC region, given their time zone demands."
"Agreed. But first, a minor adjustment." Ethan walked over to the shared, central table where Lila had meticulously stacked the binders for the project—a visual statement of her organized command. He selected the red binder labeled 'Risk Assessment.'
"I'll take this," he said, pulling it out. "Anything related to risk assessment, legal liability, or major financial forecasting will now run through me directly. You focus on the creative execution and development pipeline."
It was a subtle, professional coup. He wasn't doubting her ability; he was removing the tools she needed for total control, forcing her to rely on him for the final sign-off on the most critical details. He was, yet again, inserting himself between her and the finish line.
"Is that a lack of faith in my ability to forecast, Mr. Reed?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft.
Ethan met her eyes, the air crackling between them. "No, Lila. It's a recognition of our past division of labor. I handle the price, and you handle the passion. And you are paying a very high price for this campaign."
The words sliced through the sterile air. He was reminding her that three years ago, when the pressure hit, he had taken over the risk, and she had walked away. He was not only re-enacting their old dynamic, he was weaponizing it.
Lila gripped her pen so tightly her knuckles whitened. She had to fight him on the field of her choosing.
"Very well," she said, nodding sharply. "Then I expect immediate access to all technical legacy documents. I can't guarantee a timeline if I have to wait for you to approve every single data pull."
It was a power play. She was demanding the very information he had nearly withheld from her.
Ethan paused, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips—a fleeting look that held pride in her tactical mind and something much warmer. "Already done, Torres. I anticipated your need. The entire archive is loaded onto your local drive. You'll find it under the folder labeled 'Ours.'"
The simple, possessive word—Ours—hit her harder than any contract clause. It was the name they had given their failed company, the secret code word for their shared dream. He had just filed his entire empire's history under the label of what they had lost.
Lila looked at the folder name, a rush of unexpected heat flooding her chest. She had come back to win a contract, but Ethan had turned the professional battleground into an emotional lockdown. She was trapped in a glass room, working side-by-side with the man who had broken her heart, fighting a war where the battle lines were drawn not on the whiteboard, but in the memory of 'Ours.'
She didn't look up again. She launched the files, clicked into the archive, and pretended that the sudden, violent thumping of her own heart was merely the echo of the city outside.