MAISIE
The low murmur of the gala swells back around me as I paste on a smile for the next potential investor.
This one, a silver-haired man from a legacy tech fund, has the kind of gaze that feels like it's trying to unzip my emerald Reformation dress with its mind.
His eyes keep dipping from my face to my chest, and I have to resist the urge to adjust my neckline.
I don't mind. With men like this, it's all business. I can play this game.
"The scalability of the Roy platform is our primary focus, as I mentioned," I say, my voice all polished steel. "The initial production run is just to establish a beachhead in the consumer consciousness."
"Oh, I'm very conscious, Ms. Rory," he says, his voice a low purr. He takes a sip of his Macallan. "Perhaps we could discuss the… finer details of your projections in a more private setting later? My driver is outside."
I bet he is. I keep my smile locked in place. "My CFO would be thrilled to walk you through every decimal point, Mr. Henderson. I'll have her connect with your office first thing tomorrow."
I'm about to politely extract myself when a lazy, familiar drawl cuts through the space just behind my shoulder.
"Henderson. Still trying to close deals in backseats? Some habits never die."
I don't even have to turn. I know that voice. It's the human equivalent of a spreadsheet error.
Shinki Soma steps into our little circle, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his impeccably tailored Kiton trousers as if he's wearing sweatpants. The sheer, unbothered arrogance of it makes my teeth ache.
I ignore him, finishing my conversation with Henderson with a final, firm handshake. The older man, looking slightly chastised and very eager to escape the sudden tension, melts back into the crowd.
Only then do I turn to face the bastard. The anger I'd momentarily suppressed comes roaring back, hot and sharp.
"Mr. Soma," I say, my voice sweet enough to give a cavity. "What a surprise. I thought you'd be off somewhere, studying a 'Robotics for Dummies' book after my little primer."
He rolls his eyes, but it's not dismissive. It's… engaged. Like I'm a complex line of code he's debugging. "Your speech was… passionate. A bit heavy on the sentimental futurism and light on tangible monetization strategy, but it certainly captured the room's attention."
A compliment that's not a compliment. Of course.
"I call it speaking to human needs. You should try it sometime. It's more rewarding than just crunching numbers on your soulless abacus."
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touches his lips. "My 'abacus,' as you call it, is why my fund returns thirty percent annually. And it's also how I know your 'proprietary actuator technology' is facing a twenty-three percent failure rate in stress-testing. Newbies, as you so eloquently put it, tend to focus on the sizzle and ignore the structural flaws in the steak."
He's done his homework. The bastard. That data is supposed to be confidential.
"We've iterated on that design," I snap, my composure cracking. "The current version is flawless. But I wouldn't expect a glorified accountant who's never gotten grease under his fingernails to understand the process of innovation."
His gaze sharpens, the amusement vanishing, replaced by a cold, focused intensity. He takes a half-step closer, and the air between us crackles. "I understand enough to know a bad investment when I see one. And I understand when a CEO is too emotionally attached to her product to see its fatal weaknesses."
The words hit a nerve, the exact one he was aiming for. The one connected to my father, to my fear of failure, to everything I'm fighting for.
All my careful control shatters. Fuck consequences.
I lean in, my voice dropping to a venomous whisper meant only for him. "You know what, Soma? The only fatal weakness I see is your personality. No amount of money can fix the fact that you're a cold, empty shell of a man who probably gets off on reading his own profit margins. So why don't you go back to your ivory tower and count your money, and leave the actual building to the adults?"
I see it then—a flicker in his icy composure. A brief, stunning fracture in the mask. It's gone in a nanosecond, but I saw it.
I finally drew blood.
He doesn't reply. He just looks at me, his expression unreadable once more, before giving me a slow, deliberate once-over that feels more invasive than Henderson's leering ever did.
Then, without another word, he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, my heart hammering, tasting the metallic tang of a line I can never uncross.
– – –
SHINKI
The cool night air of Brooklyn hits my face as I stride away from The Glasshouse, the muffled sounds of the gala fading behind me. My black Maybach S-Class is idling at the curb, a silent, dark presence.
I slide into the backseat, the scent of fine leather filling my lungs. The door closes, sealing me in silence.
My mind isn't on the investors I left behind. It's on her. The red-haired hellcat in the emerald dress.
That final statement I made—about her being too emotionally attached—it was a probe. A hypothesis based on financial reports and psychological profiles. I needed to see her reaction up close.
And the result was conclusive. I watched the fury ignite in her eyes, saw the way her body went rigid. She didn't just get angry; she got personal. It confirmed everything.
Her company isn't just a business to her; it's a shrine to her dead father. It's her heart, beating outside her chest. And that is the ultimate vulnerability.
A slow, cold smirk spreads across my face.
I've never truly engaged with her before tonight. She was always just a name on a prospectus, a disruptive variable in the market. But this little exchange… it lit a fire under my ass I haven't felt in years.
It makes me want to throw every logical, calculated playbook out the window and just… fight. To meet her chaos with my own. To dominate.
Right now, the rest of the industry can think whatever they want. I don't give a damn. But her? I care what she thinks. I care that she sees me as the cold, empty shell. I care that she thinks I can't build. Fine.
I'm going to take her precious company. I'm going to take every last circuit board, every line of code, every memory of her father she's poured into it. And I'm going to make it mine.
I spot Jiro leaning against the building, a grumpy shadow in his black suit. I tap the window. He sees me, pushes off the wall, and gets into the passenger seat.
"Back to the office, Jiro. We have work to do."
He grunts in acknowledgment, and the car pulls smoothly into the New York traffic.
I stare out at the passing lights of the city, my reflection a ghost in the glass.
"Forget an olive branch," I say, my voice quiet but absolute in the quiet car. "I'm damn well handing her one hell of a bouquet of fucking thorns. And I hope it pricks the fuck out of her."