MAISIE
Lena keeps her arm around me for another minute, letting me just breathe. Then she gives my shoulders a final squeeze and pulls back, her eyes searching mine.
"Okay," she declares, her voice forcibly bright. "Enough of this. We are officially done with this work day. We are going home. We are drawing a bath so hot it could boil a lobster, we are cracking open that bottle of Veuve Clicquot that's been judging us from the fridge, and we are ordering the greasiest, most disgustingly delicious pizza known to mankind. And we are not thinking about the immaculate ice prince, his bullshit PowerPoints, or his stupid, handsome, emotionally-stunted face. We are just going to drink and eat until we can't feel our faces. Deal?"
I let out a wet, shaky laugh, wiping the last of the tears from my eyes with my sleeve. I nod. "Okay. Deal."
We gather our things and head out to the parking garage. I slide into the driver's seat of my Range Rover, the familiar scent of leather calming me. As I start the engine, I sense a shift in the air. I can feel mischief radiating from the passenger seat. I glance over and see Lena buckling her seat belt, a slow, wicked grin spreading across her face.
"Speaking of getting laid..." she begins, her tone shifting into full gossip mode.
"Oh, no. Lena, don't," I groan, pulling out of the spot and heading for the exit. "I do not need a play-by-play."
She ignores me, settling in for the story. "So, his name was Marcus. And let me tell you, the man had hands. Very... capable hands. And the things he could do with his—"
"LENA!" I shout, my face heating. "I am begging you. I am operating a two-ton vehicle. I do not need to hear about Marcus's... capabilities."
She just laughs, undeterred. "Let's just say he knew his way around a woman's body like you know your way around a circuit board. It was artistic. And the sounds he made—"
"Stop! I yield! You win! You had amazing, life-altering sex with a stranger! Can we please talk about something else?" I plead, focusing very hard on the road.
We drive in silence for a block. Then, Lena lets out a thoughtful sigh. "Well, at least one of us got laid."
I grit my teeth. "It's not my fault the dating pool is ninety percent creeps, five percent man-children, and five percent guys who are already married to their jobs."
Lena smirks, the expression visible in my periphery. "Mmm. Not all the guys married to their jobs are creeps, though. I can think of one in particular who looked at you last night like he wanted to freeze hell over just for someone touching what he considered his."
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. "Lena."
She rephrases, her voice dripping with faux innocence. "Sorry. Your ass. He looked at that guy for touching your ass."
I shoot her a death glare that could strip paint. "I am not fucking the enemy. My ass was not, is not, and will never be, his."
"Just saying," she shrugs, enjoying herself way too much. "A good hate-fuck is one of the best kinds of fucks. All that tension? That rage? It has to go somewhere. It's basically therapeutic. Very cathartic."
"LENA CHEN!" I screech, my voice hitting a octave I didn't know I possessed.
She finally throws her hands up in surrender, laughing. "Okay, okay! I'm done! No more talk of cathartic, enemy-defiling sex! I surrender!"
I shake my head, a reluctant smile finally tugging at my lips despite myself. The tears are gone, the immediate hurt soothed, replaced by the familiar, exasperating warmth of Lena's friendship. The war is still waiting. But for tonight, maybe pizza and champagne will be enough.
– – –
SHINKI
The little black demon—Spreadsheet—is trying to scale my leg, its tiny needle-claws digging into my thigh. I am seated on the edge of my bed, shirtless, using one hand to firmly but gently push the persistent creature away. My phone is on speaker, resting on the duvet.
"…so let me get this straight," Tokito's voice chirps, laced with glee. "You saw some random guy with his hand on her ass, and you, Mr. 'I-Don't-Get-Emotionally-Involved,' decided to play white knight? You didn't just calculate the situation, you intervened. That's not a variable, man. That's a feeling."
I keep my voice utterly flat. "The situation was creating a public disturbance. My presence was the most efficient way to resolve it. It had nothing to do with whose ass it was."
From the other end, Kenji lets out a low, knowing sound. "I never thought I'd see the day you'd involve yourself in something so… messy."
"It's because he wants to be the only one touching her ass!" Tokito crows. "He's marking his territory! You're like a feral cat, but with a stock portfolio!"
I roll my eyes so hard it's a physical strain. This is unproductive. "Tokito, for the love of God, shut the fuck up. There are more important things to discuss."
I successfully detach the cat from my leg and it stalks off, flicking its tail in offense. The silence on the line is a minor victory.
"I've filed our counter-move to her lawsuit," I state, shifting the topic to solid, unassailable ground. "We're accelerating the takeover bid, using her emotional lawsuit as proof of her instability. We're going straight to the shareholders."
I pause, an unwelcome image flashing in my mind: Maisie in her office, that fiery spirit dimmed, her head in her hands. The thought is… inconvenient.
"I'm sure she's broken down because of it by now," I add, the words coming out colder than I intend. A strange, hollow twinge follows them. Why does saying that feel like a minor betrayal?
"Ooh," Tokito coos, instantly latching on. "Does the big, bad wolf feel bad for making Little Red Riding Hood cry? Do you want your new-found love weeping into her pillow?"
Before I can form a scathing retort, Kenji's voice cuts in, sharp and final. "Tokito, take your sentimental drivel to your own office." Then, to me, his tone is pragmatic, almost approving. "The statement wasn't gentlemanly, Shinki. But who gives a fuck? This is corporate warfare. Not a ballroom."
The validation is what I needed. The strange twinge vanishes, buried under layers of cold logic. He's right. This is a battle for survival, for dominance. There is no room for gentlemanly conduct, or for worrying about whether the enemy cries.
"Precisely," I say, my voice steady once more. "Sentiment has no place on the battlefield."
I end the call a moment later, the silence of the penthouse descending. The cat has given up and is now batting a pen across the floor. I watch it, my mind clear, focused on the next move.
But the ghost of that hollow feeling, the faint echo of wondering if she's crying, remains. A stubborn, illogical variable I cannot seem to delete.
– – –
AUTHOR
The lights of Lower Manhattan glitter like a spilled jewel box far below the Tribeca penthouse. Alexander Callum stands before the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of blood-red Barolo in his hand. The view is one of absolute dominion, but his attention is fixed on the tablet in his other hand, its screen glowing with financial news headlines about Rory Robotics.
He takes a slow, contemplative sip. "Two years," he muses, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone. "And she hasn't changed a bit."
Behind him, lounging on a white sectional sofa, his brother Marcus scoffs. "Maisie? Still the same emotional, messy girl who thought a company was run on passion and daddy's memory." He swirls the ice in his own glass of bourbon. "Though, I'll give her this. The mess looks a lot better now. Saw her at Temple last night. She's all grown up, Alex. And damn."
Alexander doesn't turn, but his grip on the wine glass tightens almost imperceptibly. The shift in his posture is subtle, but it broadcasts a clear, silent warning. "Don't go there, Marcus."
Marcus holds up his free hand in a placating gesture, a lazy smirk on his face. "I know, I know. Hands off. I'm just saying. I'm not thinking of fucking your ex. Besides," he adds, his smirk widening into a grin, "I already did her best friend. The CFO, Lena. Cheerful little thing. Surprisingly flexible."
This finally makes Alexander turn. His eyes, a cold, calculating grey, land on his brother. There is no anger, just a deep, simmering possessiveness that has outlasted any actual affection for Maisie Rory. She was, and remains, a belonging he once had, and that makes her his business.
"Your lack of discretion is a liability," Alexander states, his voice flat.
"It's a gift," Marcus counters, unrepentant. He leans forward, his expression turning serious. "So, what's your take on this little war? Kage Capital versus your fiery ex."
Alexander turns back to the window, his gaze sweeping over the city until it seems to lock onto the Rory Robotics headquarters in the Meatpacking District, miles away.
"Let her fight him," he says, a cold smile touching his lips. "Let the Soma guy wear her down. Let him think he's the only shark in the water." He takes a final sip of his wine, the gesture final. "She can fight him all she wants. But the price is Rory Robotics. And I'll be joining the auction soon enough."