And she believes we’re competing for the same thing.
Already out of the loop.
I spring from my seat and march back to Corm’s office, only to catch him leaving. “Can I have a word?”
He looks at me like I’m an annoying insect. “Can it wait until tomorrow?” He continues walking.
“Why does your office manager believe we’re in competition?”
He signs some paperwork people shove into his face as he walks by. I keep flexing my fingers.
This should have been an easy in-and-out. Instead, I’m only encountering hurdles.
“Because she is. And as will be announced tomorrow, she is now a partner, so I think we will need to find her another title,” he muses, too entertained by the whole thing.
“A partner?”
We reach the elevator.
“Yes, she is getting the five percent, but as she expressed an interest in the other fifteen, you both will have to prove who is the better man… woman… partner.” He smirks and steps into the elevator, leaving me behind.
As the door closes, an inconvenient truth settles under my skin. The partnership means nothing. It’s just a direction to walk in. A doorway.
But Roxy Moretti changes the terrain simply by standing on it.
I engineered our proximity. But competition? That complicates access.
Being positioned against Roxy Moretti is a risk. I need to gain her trust. If she sees me as a threat, trust becomes a battlefield.
The challenge sparks something I didn’t expect.
Gaining her trust while she’s incentivized to doubt me will require precision. Restraint. A different kind of control.
I welcome it.
This just became harder.
And, somehow, more exciting.
I stifle a yawn, hoping Caleb van den Linden won’t notice I’m barely awake. The chief operationsofficer at Merged started this briefing forty minutes ago in his office.
If this were my father, I would play on my phone, just to spite him. Here I’m actually paying attention, or trying to.
There are two problems with this meeting.
One: Last night, I pored over Merged case studies from their publicly known projects. I stared at spreadsheets until the lines blurred. I might be here on a temporary tenure, but I need to make it believable.
Two: While my fatigued mind struggles to keep up with Cal’s words, my drained attention keeps defying me and drifts to the woman beside me.
Roxy wears gray sweatpants with a red, frilly blouse. Her wardrobe choices are a statement. On anyone else, it might look like a blind nanny dressed them.
She looks like she mugged a ballerina, stole her style, and somehow made the whole disaster couture.
She carries herself with such confidence that I doubt anyone questions her choice. And even if they do, they wouldn’t dare voice it.
It’s bold, slightly unhinged, and a big middle finger to everything traditional… or sane.
I admire that.
