MAISIE
The cold morning air feels like a slap after the warm haze of last night's champagne. Lena and I push through the sleek glass doors of our building, the buzz of the city immediately replaced by a different, more aggressive hum.
A small crowd is gathered just past the entrance. Not protestors. Worse. Reporters. I see the logos for Bloomberg and The Wall Street Journal, and my stomach does a little flip.
A woman in a sharp blazer steps forward, a microphone thrust toward my face like a weapon. "Ms. Rory! Maisie! Do you have a comment on the hostile takeover bid from Kage Capital? Is it true your company is facing insurmountable technical challenges?"
I stop walking. Lena tenses beside me. This is it. The first real test.
I force my shoulders to relax and offer a small, weary smile. It's not hard to fake the tired part.
"The only 'insurmountable challenge' we're facing is a predatory billionaire who seems to think he can manipulate the market and bully a woman-led company into submission," I say, my voice clear and steady, carrying through the lobby.
The reporters lean in, recorders held high.
"His bid isn't a 'lifeline,'" I continue, laying it on thick. "It's an attack. It's based on stolen, out-of-context data that he deliberately leaked to devalue us. He didn't like that I stood up to him at the gala, so now he's trying to destroy everything my father built—a company dedicated to real innovation, not just cold, heartless profit."
I look directly into the Bloomberg camera, letting my anger and conviction show. "This isn't just about Rory Robotics. This is about every small innovator he thinks he can crush. He's not a savior; he's a corporate raider in a five-thousand-dollar suit. And we will not be silenced."
I don't wait for another question. I give a firm, final nod and stride past them, Lena right on my heels. I can feel their excitement. I've given them the narrative they wanted: David vs. Goliath. Heart vs. Spreadsheet.
The second the elevator doors close, sealing us in, Lena lets out a sound that's half-squeal, half-war cry.
"Holy shit, Maisie! That was… that was perfect! You were perfect! The 'woman-led company'? The 'my father built'? The 'corporate raider'? They ate it up! They were salivating!"
She's practically vibrating, her eyes wide with adrenaline. "I saw the look on that WSJ guy's face. He's already drafting the headline. 'Soma's Siege: Billionaire's Vendetta Against Robotics Prodigy.'"
The elevator dings and we step out into the familiar, chaotic energy of the Rory Robotics office. The buzz in here is different—tense, but supportive. People are looking at me, and for the first time in days, it's not with pity. It's with respect.
"I can't wait to see the blogs," Lena continues, following me toward my office, her voice giddy. "The finance bros on Twitter are going to have a field day. They love this kind of drama. 'Soulless VC vs. the Passionate Engineer.' The comments on his Instagram are probably already a warzone. He's going to flip. Actually flip. I bet he breaks another phone."
A genuine, fierce smile spreads across my face. The last of the champagne fog is gone, replaced by the clean, sharp high of a battle joined and a first round decisively won.
"Let him flip," I say, pushing open my office door. "He wanted a war of words? He just got one. And I don't need an abacus to know we're winning this round."
– – –
SHINKI
The thick, creamy paper of the lawsuit feels like an insult in my hands. I have just finished reading it for the third time, sitting behind my desk in my silent, sterile office. My black Kiton suit is armor, but right now it feels like a cage.
I run a frustrated hand through my perfectly styled hair. The gel holds firm, but the gesture is a admission of defeat. I never do that.
The nerve. The absolute, unmitigated gall of that she-devil. She isn't just fighting back. She's constructing an entire narrative, painting me as some mustache-twirling villain from a bad corporate drama. Defamation. Sabotage. The words are ludicrous. They are also… brilliant. It's a masterstroke of emotional manipulation.
My tablet dings, a soft, polite sound that feels obscenely calm. The notification screen fills with alerts. 45… 67… 99… all from my media monitoring service. I open the feed.
My cold, simmering rage ignites into a white-hot flame.
The headlines are a cascade of poison.
SOMA'S SIEGE: BILLIONAIRE'S VENDETTA AGAINST ROBOTICS PRODIGY
HEART VS. SPREADSHEET: RORY ROBOTICS CEO FIGHTS "PREDATORY" TAKEOVER
KAGE CAPITAL ACCUSED OF CORPORATE SABOTAGE IN HOSTILE BID
"Fuck," I whisper to the empty room. The word feels foreign on my tongue. "This woman is testing me."
I reach for the remote and turn on the large screen on my wall. It's tuned to a financial news channel. And there she is.
Maisie Rory, standing outside her building, looking every bit the brave, wronged underdog. The camera loves her. She speaks, and her words are perfectly calibrated venom.
"...a predatory billionaire... trying to destroy everything my father built... cold, heartless profit..."
I watch, my hand clenched into a fist on the desk. She is throwing every one of my logical, sound business actions back in my face, twisted into a personal, emotional attack. And the press is lapping it up.
From the corner of the room, I hear a low grunt. Jiro. I'd almost forgotten he was there, a silent shadow.
He's watching the screen, his arms crossed over his chest. He shakes his head slowly, a look of profound disappointment on his face.
"Petty meets Petty," he mumbles, his voice a low rumble of judgment.
He's not wrong. This is no longer a corporate acquisition. It's a street fight. And she just smashed a bottle and took a swing.
The cold rage settles in my bones, turning my blood to ice. This requires an immediate, overwhelming response. She wants a legal war? She wants a media war? Fine.
I stab the intercom button on my desk, the movement sharp and final.
"Amelia," I say, my voice dangerously calm. "Get me Franklin. Now. I don't care if he's in a meeting with the SEC. Get him on the line."
I lean back in my chair, my eyes still locked on the screen, on Maisie Rory's triumphant, fiery face.
The pristine silence of my office is suffocating. The headlines are still burning behind my eyes. I can't sit here in this five-thousand-dollar suit. It feels like her words are staining the fabric.
I stand up abruptly, my chair rolling back silently on the polished concrete. I shrug off the suit jacket, tossing it over the back of the sofa. Then I yank at the knot of my tie, pulling it loose and draping it over the jacket. I unbutton the top two buttons of my shirt, rolling my shoulders. The physical constriction is unbearable.
I look at Jiro. He's leaning against the doorframe, his face its usual granite mask. But his eyes give me a look. The 'you can vent' look. He's one of the only three people on the planet who ever gets it.
I never lose control in public. My composure is my fortress. But here, in this controlled environment, with the select few who have seen the forging of that fortress… sometimes the pressure needs a release valve.
And right now, the valve is blowing.
"She is so… emotionally entangled!" I snap, the words exploding out of me. I start pacing, a tight, angry path in front of my desk. "It's a company! A collection of assets, IP, and human resources! It is not her dead father's ghost! She treats it like a holy relic!"
Jiro just grunts. An indulgent sound that means 'go on.'
"This sentimentality is a cancer! It clouds judgment. It leads to idiotic, reckless decisions like this… this theatrical lawsuit!" I run a hand through my hair again. Thoroughly destroying its perfection. "Does she think a judge will care that her daddy taught her to use a wrench? No! They will care about facts. Numbers. The twenty-three percent failure rate!"
I stop, pointing a finger at the silent television as if she's still on it. "She doesn't see it. She is steering the company straight toward a cliff, singing her father's praises, and she has the audacity to accuse me of being the danger? I am trying to save it from her maudlin, incompetent hands!"
I look at Jiro, my chest heaving. "She wouldn't know what salvation for that company looked like if it…" I search for the crudest, most visceral analogy I can muster, the kind Tokito would use, "…if it grew a dick and slapped her across the face with it!"
There. I've said it. The crude, ugly truth of my frustration laid bare.
Jiro doesn't even blink. "Mmm," is all he offers. A sound that acknowledges the venting without endorsing the content.
I pace for another minute, the furious energy finally burning itself out. The red haze recedes from my vision. I walk to the sideboard and pour a tall glass of ice water. My hand is steady now.
I take a long, slow breath, then a longer drink. The cold is a shock, cleansing.
"I'm done," I state, my voice returning to its normal, flat cadence. I needed to get it out of my system. Now it's out. The problem is no longer an emotional one. It's a tactical one.
I set the glass down and walk back to my desk, sitting down with perfect posture. I am calm. I am focused. I wait for my lawyer.
Jiro pushes off the doorframe. He shakes his head, just once.
"Petty," he rumbles, the word final.
I ignore him. He's not wrong. But pettiness, now properly channeled, can be an exceptionally sharp weapon.