MAISIE
The polite chatter of the gala feels like static in my ears, a meaningless hum after the nuclear blast of my exchange with Soma.
I can't do this anymore.
I can't smile and nod and pretend to care about market synergies with men who are still mentally undressing me.
I find Lena by the dessert table, happily eyeing a tower of macarons.
"We're leaving," I say, my voice tight.
She turns, takes one look at my face, and her playful expression softens into one of genuine concern. "Whoa. Okay. The 'I'm-going-to-murder-someone-with-my-bare-hands' walk is out in full force. Bad?"
"The worst." I start weaving through the crowd toward the exit, not caring if she's keeping up.
She falls into step beside me, looping her arm through mine. "Okay, but just to play devil's advocate… was he at least a hot bastard while he was being the worst? Because that suit was doing things, Maisie. Immoral, expensive things."
A sound that's half laugh, half sob escapes me. It's so typically Lena, and for a fraction of a second, it does cut through the red haze. Just a fraction. "His suit is the most personality he has. The rest is just… algorithms and ice."
We step out into the cool Brooklyn night. I take a deep breath, but it doesn't calm me. The air just feels charged, like the city itself is waiting for the storm I just unleashed.
"He poked me first, Lena," I mutter, my heels clicking aggressively on the pavement as we head toward where our Uber is waiting. "He stood up in the middle of my speech and called my life's work a 'glorified nanny'. So I poked back. Harder."
"And?" she prompts, her voice gentle.
"And I may have… declared all-out war." I stop walking, turning to face her under the glow of a streetlamp. "I told him he was a cold, empty shell of a man who gets off on reading his own profit margins."
Lena's eyes widen, a slow grin spreading across her face. "No. You did not."
"I did. And I meant every word." The adrenaline is still coursing through me, making my hands tremble. I look down and realize I'm still clutching the empty champagne flute I snatched from a table on my way out.
My knuckles are white around the stem.
I tighten my grip, imagining the cool, smooth glass is his fucking throat. I can almost see the arrogant lift of his brow, the utter lack of emotion in his eyes as he assessed me. The bastard. The smug, calculating, son of a bitch.
"He's not going to take that lying down," Lena says, her humor fading into practicality. "A man like that…"
"I know." The words come out as a whisper. I finally unclench my hand from the glass and set it down on a nearby ledge with a sharp click. "He won't see it as a personal insult. He'll see it as a business challenge. He's probably already in his stupid, soulless Maybach, drafting a plan to serve me a double-decker financial shit sandwich with a hostile takeover topping."
The image is so vivid, so him, that it makes my stomach clench. But the anger is stronger. It's a burning, defiant fire in my chest.
"Let him try," I say, my voice gaining strength as I look back at The Glasshouse, as if I can see right through the walls to where he was standing. "I hate that bastard. I hate everything he represents. And I will take whatever the hell he has to throw at me. I'll burn the whole thing down before I let him have one screw from my father's company."
Maybe it's the adrenaline talking. Maybe it's the two-and-a-half flutes of Moët I downed in record time. But right now, in this moment, I feel invincible. I feel like I could go toe-to-toe with the great Shinki Soma and win.
Our Uber pulls up. Lena opens the door and gives me a look that's equal parts proud and terrified. "Okay, Xena. Get in. Your war chariot awaits."
I slide into the car, the leather seats feeling cold through my dress. As we pull away from the curb, the fiery certainty begins to cool, leaving behind a brittle, anxious shell.
I know in the morning, when the champagne glow has faded and the cold light of day hits, the fear will creep in. The reality of what I've just provoked will settle in my gut like a stone.
But for tonight, I cling to the anger. It's the only thing keeping me from crumbling.
The Uber ride back to Tribeca is a special kind of torture. Lena spends the entire time shifting in the cracked leather seat, complaining loudly.
"Remind me again why we didn't take your Range Rover?" she groans, trying to find a comfortable position. "I think this car has seen more heartbreak and questionable life choices than a Jersey Shore reunion. And what is that smell? Despair and old french fries?"
"I was drinking," I mutter, leaning my forehead against the cool window, watching the lights of lower Manhattan blur past. "And right now, I regret not drinking more."
We finally pull up to my building, and the silent, sleek lobby feels like a sanctuary. The elevator whisks us up to the penthouse, and the doors open directly into my home.
It's all clean lines, polished concrete floors, and those incredible floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a glittering, postcard-perfect view of the city.
It's my sanctuary, my fortress.
The moment we step inside, a smooth, whirring sound approaches. Roy, my latest physical prototype—a sleek, humanoid form on quiet rubber treads—glides over. Its optical sensors glow a soft blue as it gently takes my clutch from my hand and then reaches for Lena's pashmina.
Lena beams, all her Uber discomfort forgotten. "God, I love him. Hey, handsome. You're the best boyfriend in this whole city. You don't talk back and you fetch." She pats Roy's sleek white chassis.
She kicks off her heels and does a little spin on the rug. "I'm telling you, Maisie, convincing you to let me move into the guest room was the single greatest business negotiation of my life. Beats any deal I'll ever make. Free rent and a robot butler? I've peaked."
A tired but genuine smile touches my lips. "Your rent is your relentless optimism. It's exhausting, but I need it." I head towards my bedroom, already pulling the pins from my hair. "I need a bath. A scorching hot, biblical flood kind of bath to wash the filth of Soma off me."
Lena collapses onto the massive sectional sofa, tucking her feet underneath her. "Girl, you don't need a bath. You need a full spiritual detox. Maybe an exorcism. I'm talking sage, salt circles, the whole nine yards. We gotta get that negative billionaire energy out of your aura."
I laugh, a real one this time, as I disappear into my bedroom. "Just pour me a glass of wine and tell me I'm pretty, Lena. That's all the detox I can handle tonight."
"Your wish is my command, O Queen of Robotics!" she calls out.
I lean back against my closed bedroom door, the smile fading from my face. The silence of the room is heavy. Roy has neatly placed my clutch on the dresser. Outside, the city glitters, indifferent.
The anger is still there, a low, simmering burn in my veins, but for now, it's buried under a layer of sheer exhaustion and the comforting knowledge that, at least here, in my fortress, I'm safe. For now.