She takes her plate and moves on, dispensing comments and instructions with the efficiency of a general disguised as a host.
When the room finally thins, I’m left with an empty plate and an uncomfortable truth settling in my chest.
This wasn’t a prank.
This was a flex.
And I felt it. And perhapseven enjoyed it.
The boardroom smells like polished wood and expensive markers.
Glass walls. City beyond. Afternoon light cutting across the table at sharp angles.
Roxy stands at the head, tablet in hand, posture relaxed. Commanding without effort.
I sit halfway down the table. Not beside her. Not opposite. Close enough. Too close.
She’s outlining the regulatory timeline, voice even, precise. Dates. Dependencies. Risks.
Competence dressed in a kimono and thigh-high boots.
She gestures once, absently, and the pen in her hair shifts. It holds. Of course, it does.
“…Which puts approval no earlier than Q3,” she concludes. “Assuming no objections.”
I lean back in my chair. “Q2 is feasible.”
The room stills.
She doesn’t look at me immediately. That’s deliberate. She lets the silence stretch, lets everyone feel it.
Then she turns. “Based on?”
“Precedent,” I say calmly. “Similar filings cleared in under six months last year.”
She tilts her head. Curious? Annoyed? “Different jurisdiction,” she bites out, finding her fake smile.
The atmosphere shifts. Some team members fidget. Others flip through the presentation printout.
“Same oversight body.” I shrug.
A pause.
I can see her calculating. Running scenarios. Adjusting. She doesn’t like being challenged in public.
I don’t like that I enjoy doing it.
“Those cases didn’t involve cross-border restructuring,” she says.
“True,” I reply. “They also didn’t have your legal team.”
A flicker. Gone almost instantly.
She studies me for a beat too long. “Optimism is dangerous.”
“So is caution,” I counter. “It costs time.”
“And time costs money,” she finishes coolly.
