Prudence POV
It was a weapon I had never encountered, and it was utterly, infuriatingly effective. For a week, I had braced for impact ,for war . I had fortified Provida's legal department, instructed Anya to scrutinize every line of every communication from Steele Industries, and prepared my board for the possibility of a hostile withdrawal. I had my own counter-moves ready which was a media campaign praising our independence, a pivot to a European partner I'd been quietly cultivating.
I was prepared for war.
Justin Steele gave me… impeccable courtesy.
It was maddening. His emails were models of corporate prose which were concise, actionable, and devoid of even a hint of subtext. His team's work on the Tokyo integration was not just good; it was inspired, anticipating needs we hadn't even articulated. In our final video conferences, his face on the screen was a study in focused professionalism. He praised my team's insights, deferred to my expertise on market nuances, and agreed or disagreed with points based solely on logic. There was no warmth, but there was also no chill. Just a neutral, efficient vacuum.
He was a ghost of the man who had stood in my foyer, his eyes stormy with sincerity, asking for a truce. He was a hologram of the man who had held me on the dance floor, his touch a brand.
This is the punishment, I told myself. This is his revenge. He is showing me what life would be like if he were simply… gone. But he wasn't gone. He was a constant, polished, irritating presence.
The final pre-launch meeting in my conference center was the pinnacle of this exquisite torture. I had dressed for a showdown, the charcoal suit was armor. I entered ready to face his anger, his disdain, his something.
He gave me nothing. Absolutely nothing.
His "Thank you, Prudence. We aim to be a valuable asset to the partnership," wasn't passive-aggressive. It was simply true. And the look in his eyes as he said it… it was the look one gives a reliable piece of office equipment. Necessary. Functional. Unremarkable.
A valuable asset. Not a formidable rival. Not a captivating woman. An asset.
The tightening in my chest as he gathered his things and left wasn't triumph. It was a peculiar, hollow ache. He had taken my own medicine; the ice, the distance, the transactional demeanor and administered it back to me with a precision that left me dizzy. My own walls, which had always felt like protection, now felt like a cage he was politely refusing to enter.
For three days, the strange disequilibrium persisted. Tokyo launch preparations hit a fever pitch, and his team's efficiency was a blessing and a curse. Every flawless report, every perfectly executed task was a reminder of his… correctness. His emotional absence was a void that seemed to suck at my concentration.
The breaking point came on a Thursday evening. I was in my office, reviewing the final shipping manifests for the flagship store's inaugural stock. A notification popped up on my screen: a calendar alert for a mandatory pre-travel briefing for all executives traveling to Tokyo. It was scheduled for tomorrow morning. My name was on the list. So was his.
We would be on the same flight. In the same business class cabin. For fourteen hours.
A jolt, equal parts dread and something dangerously like anticipation, shot through me. The controlled environment of video calls and boardrooms was one thing. The intimate, inescapable proximity of a long-haul flight was another. There would be no easy exit. No table to hide behind.
I could change my flight. Send Anya in my place. There were a dozen ways to avoid it.
But avoiding it would be a retreat. It would be an admission that his new strategy, this maddening, polite indifference was working. That it affected me.
I would not give him the satisfaction.
The briefing the next morning was held in a sterile conference room at the airline's private club. I arrived precisely on time. He was already there, standing by the window, a tablet in hand. He turned as I entered.
"Prudence," he said, with a nod. The same neutral tone. The same polite, distant gaze.
"Justin," I replied, matching his tone perfectly. I took a seat as far from him as the small room allowed.
The briefing was dry, the protocols, security details, itinerary. Through it all, I was acutely aware of him. He asked pertinent, practical questions about Wi-Fi reliability and cargo handling for the delicate product samples. He didn't look at me once.
It was as if our history, the dance, the street corner, the searing kiss of humiliation I'd delivered had been erased from his memory. I had wanted to teach him a lesson, to show him he couldn't play with me. I had succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. He wasn't playing at all.
As the meeting broke up, the airline representative spoke. "Due to an aircraft change, we've had to reconfigure seating. Mr. Steele, Ms. Smith, you'll be in seats 1A and 1C. Adjacent aisles."
My breath hitched. Adjacent.
Justin merely glanced at his updated boarding pass. "Understood. Thank you."
He walked out of the room without another word.
The following evening, standing in the first-class lounge waiting to board, the surreal feeling intensified. He was across the room, speaking softly on the phone, looking every bit the powerful, preoccupied CEO. He was dressed for travel in dark, casual trousers and a simple sweater that did nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders. He looked approachable. Human. And completely uninterested in my existence.
We boarded. The cabin was a haven of quiet luxury. Seat 1A was by the window. 1C, mine, was on the aisle. He was already settled, a laptop open, his attention fully absorbed.
I stowed my bag and sat down, the space between us feeling charged and yet empty. The scent of him very clean, subtle, unmistakably him wafted over. I busied myself with my own tablet, pulling up reports I had no intention of reading.
The doors closed. The engines whined to life. As we began to taxi, the captain's voice came over the speaker, announcing our flight time and route. A moment of routine turbulence shook the cabin as we climbed.
I've never been a nervous flier, but my hand instinctively gripped the armrest.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him glance over. Not at my face, but at my white-knuckled hand. He didn't say a word. He simply reached into the seatback pocket in front of him, pulled out the laminated safety card, and placed it on the empty middle seat between us. Then he went back to his laptop.
It was such a small, absurd gesture. Not an offer of comfort, not a patronizing pat. Just a silent, practical acknowledgment: The information you might need is here.
The sheer, ridiculous normality of it was what cracked me. In the face of my epic cruelty, his strategic indifference, and the tense, unspoken history thickening the air between us, he was handing me a safety instruction card.
A sound escaped me. A choked, half-hysterical mix of a laugh and a sob. I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it was too late.
He looked up, his fingers pausing on the keyboard. For the first time in over a week, his neutral mask slipped. Not into anger or warmth, but into a faint, bewildered curiosity. His stormy eyes met mine, a real question in them.
"What?" he asked, his voice low, just for us in the hushed cabin.
Tears, hot and humiliating, pricked at the corners of my eyes. I shook my head, staring at the stupid safety card. "Nothing," I whispered, my voice thick. "It's nothing."
But it wasn't nothing. It was the tremor. The deep, unsettling shift beneath the glacier.
He had not retaliated with fire. He had not withdrawn into icy silence. He had become… solid. Reliable. Present. And in his quiet, unwavering, different way, he had just shown more care in that one unconscious gesture than any of the manageable men ever had with their grand, empty promises.
He watched me for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful, seeing the tears I couldn't quite blink away. The indifference was gone, replaced by a watchful, intense focus that was far more familiar and far more dangerous.
Slowly, he closed his laptop. He didn't speak. He didn't touch me. He just sat there, in the seat beside me, a solid, silent presence as the plane pierced the clouds and aimed itself toward the other side of the world.
And for the first time, sitting next to him, surrounded by the quiet hum of the aircraft, I felt truly, utterly disarmed. The siege was not an attack. It was a profound, patient demonstration.
And I was no longer sure I wanted to win. I did not know why I cared about him talking to me, but I cared.