BZZZZT. BZZZZT. BZZZZT.
"Ohhhh, for the love of… shut up," I groaned, my voice thick with sleep. I slapped a hand blindly across the nightstand, searching for the screaming plastic box that was my alarm clock. My fingers found my phone instead. I squinted at the screen, the light painfully bright.
9:47 AM.
My presentation was at 10:30. Downtown.
"Shit! Damn it, no, no, no!"
I pounced out of bed so fast the world spun. I'd completely forgotten to set a backup alarm. Idiot! I yanked open my closet, pulling on the first presentable thing I found a grey sheath dress and a blazer. No time for a proper shower. I splashed water on my face, dragged a brush through my tangled hair, swiped on mascara, and grabbed my portfolio bag.
"Keys, keys, keys!" I chanted, patting my pockets before finding them in yesterday's jeans. I was out the door in under twelve minutes, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I can't be late. I cannot blow this.
***
Holy shit. I actually did it.
The air in the conference room of "The Daily Grind Café bakery"franchise HQ was still buzzing, but it was a good buzz. The lead investor, a woman named Ms. Chen with a sharp gaze, had just smiled and said, "We're sold. The script logo. It's perfect."
Inside, I was screaming. Yes! Fuck yes! Outside, I kept it professional. "That's fantastic to hear, Ms. Chen. I'll get the final files and invoice over to you by end of day."
The price $3,200 for the full brand package was going to cover my rent for two months and then some. I walked out of the sleek downtown building, the afternoon sun hitting my face. I felt… powerful. Competent. Like my own goddamn person. I fished my phone from my bag to text Jax the good news.
It rang before I could unlock it.
It was a call from....
§***
Ben turned.
And fuck, he wished he hadn't.
The man standing beside Mr. Jefferson wasn't just new. He was a fucking omen. Sam Gael. Mid-thirties, hair a shade too perfect, suit a weapon. His eyes met Ben's, and there was nothing in them. No curiosity, no ambition, just a flat, polished surface. Like a shark's.
"Benjamin," Mr. Jefferson said, with all the warmth of a bank statement. "Sam Gael. Sterling's point man for merger integration. He'll be embedded with your division."
Embedded. Like a tick, Ben thought.
Sam extended a hand. His grip was firm, dry, and felt like a violation. "Ben. I've reviewed your portfolio. The Harbor Project is particularly… intriguing."
Intriguing. Corporate-speak for I've found the loose thread.
"Yeah," Ben grunted, pulling his hand back. "It's a complex deal."
"I'm sure. I'd like to get up to speed. A full data dump all historical bids, competitor analysis, your internal risk assessments. End of day should suffice."
Ben's head, already pounding from last night's drama and shame, throbbed in protest. End of day? Is this guy out of his fucking mind? "That's… a tall order. The archive is extensive."
Sam's smile was a thin, humorless line. "I'm sure a man of your caliber thrives on tall orders. Consider it a priority realignment." He turned to Jefferson. "Sir, if we're done? I'd like to get started."
Jefferson gave a curt nod, a dismissal. Ben was left standing there, gutted in his own fucking office.
He stumbled back to his desk, the weight of the demand pressing down.
§***
From the glass-walled conference room, Sam watched Ben retreat.
Predictable."Sam said"
A Mr. Sung, Head of Operations,walked up to Sam with a placid smile. "Mr. Gael, welcome. At your request, I am to give you a tour of the operational floors. Whenever you are ready."
"Now is perfect, Mr. Sung," Sam said, his own smile in place. "Lead the way."
The tour was a procession through the artery of Jefferson & Co. Sung's commentary was a steady drone. "…and this is our primary analytics hub. All project metrics flow here in real-time… Over here, the strategy war room for the Pacific expansion…"
Sam nodded, absorbing it all. The layout. The faces. The rhythm of the place. He asked a few pointed questions just enough to seem engaged, not enough to reveal his own assessment. Ehh, their data visualization is two years behind Sterling's standard. Waw, look at the clutter in that workflow.
As they passed the executive lounge, Sung gestured. "A space for informal collaboration."
Sam's eyes swept the room. Plush sofas, a city view, a well-stocked bar. And there, by the window, was Clara Sterling, Ben's fiancée. She was on her phone, her back to the room, her posture a rigid line of tension even from here. A slow, devious smile touched Sam's lips before he smoothed it away. Oh, this is going to be… exquisite."Sam mumbled to himself"
"The view is impressive," Sam remarked blandly to Sung.
"Yes, it motivates us," Sung replied, completely missing the true object of Sam's gaze.
§***
That evening, the drive to the Sterlings House was silent. Ben drove, Clara stared out the window. The air between them was thick with everything unsaid his humiliation, her cold scrutiny, the heavy talks of her father's expectations waiting for them at home.
Dinner was, as always, a strategic briefing disguised as a meal. Charles laid out the plan for the Hargrove dinner like a military precision.
"Robert Hargrove is sentimental about maritime history," Charles said, cutting into his steak. "You, Benjamin, will steer the conversation to the harbor's architectural legacy when he mentions his yacht club. Connect it to the modern revitalization of the Harbor Project. Do you have the updated talking points?"
"They're in my email, sir," Ben said, the 'sir' tasting like ash.
"Good. Clara, you will wear the navy Valentino. It suggests stability and depth. You will laugh at his wife's anecdotes about their vineyard. Make it sound genuine."
Clara nodded, her face a beautiful, impassive mask. "Of course, Father."
Ben watched her. He saw the slight tremor in her hand as she lifted her wine glass. He felt a confusing twist in his gut, it was like a recognition. She was just as trapped in this script as he was.She's just like me!
Ben groaned in his head."Shit!"
i was such a fool to fall for all this,I was greedy and now look.
The next day at the office, the Harbor Project war room was in session. Ben, his team leads, and now Sam Gael, were buried in files and schematics.
Sam was a silent force for the first hour, just listening. Then he spoke.
"Page seven, the environmental impact assessment," Sam said, his voice cutting through a debate about zoning. "The mitigation strategy here relies on a permit from the city's planning committee. The committee chair is under investigation for corruption. This isn't an 'amber' risk. This is a bright red, screaming fucking liability."
David, Ben's lead, blinked. "Our legal team has assurances..."
"Legal assurances are worthless against a subpoena," Sam interrupted, his tone chillingly pleasant. "We need a parallel strategy that assumes the permit fails. I want three viable alternatives on my desk by Friday."
The room fell silent. Ben just stared. Sam had identified a critical flaw in twenty minutes that they'd been rationalizing for months. The hell… this guy is terrifyingly good.
As the meeting wore on, Sam dissected timelines, challenged cost projections, and reprioritized tasks with a calm, ruthless logic that left no room for argument. He wasn't mean; he was just… immovably correct.
When it finally ended, Ben felt shell-shocked. He lingered as the others filed out, the weight of his own obsolescence pressing down.
Sam was gathering his notes. "Ben. A moment?"
Ben's throat was dry. "Yes, Mr. Gael?"
"Sam is fine," he said, looking up. That flat, shark-like gaze pinned Ben in place. "You have a capable team. But they're used to the old way of doing things. This merger… it requires a new calibration. "Do not allow attachment to established practices or historical precedents to obscure the strategic imperatives required for future success."
He said it like he was offering mentorship. It felt like a final warning and an advice.
Ben managed a stiff nod. "Understood."
Sam gave a slight, approving tilt of his head. "Good. I'll send my notes on the supply chain vulnerabilities. We'll need to clean that up before anyone thinks of pitching this to the Hargroves." He paused at the door. "Can't have the foundation crumbling before we even build the walls, can we?"
Later That Evening: The Sterling Penthouse & The Hargrove Dinner
The pre-dinner preparation in the Sterling penthouse was a military operation. At 7 PM, Ben stood in a guest room adjusting his cufflinks in front of a full-length mirror. His tuxedo was bespoke, a gift from Charles. It fit perfectly and felt like a straitjacket.
A soft knock. Clara entered. Wow. She was a vision in a navy-blue Valentino gown that clung to her before cascading to the floor. The emerald glittered at her throat and ears. Her makeup was flawless, her blonde hair swept into an elegant knot. She looked every inch the ice princess heir.
But her eyes, when they met his in the mirror, were flat. "Remember the talking points," she said, her voice devoid of warmth. "Robert loves his yacht. Elsa loves her roses. Connect the harbor's history to modern luxury. Do not… falter."
Ben turned. "I know the script, Clara."
"For all our sakes, I hope you do." She adjusted his bow tie, her fingers cold and efficient. For a second, their faces were close. He could smell her perfume, something expensive and icy. He searched her eyes for a flicker of the woman he thought. He had proposed to some humor, some warmth but there was nothing. Just polished dread. The realization was a cold stone in his gut. What the hell are we doing? How did I manage to bring myself this?
The dinner was at "Le Ciel," a restaurant on the 60th floor of the Paramount Tower. The private dining room was all dark wood, soft gold lighting, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city sparkling like a bed of jewels. The air hummed with the low murmur of money and power.
The Hargroves had arrived. Robert Hargrove was a bear of a man with a loud, genial laugh. His wife, Elsa, was slender and sharp-eyed, dripping in understated pearls.
Charles Sterling was in his element, the consummate host. "Robert! Elsa! So glad you could join us." The handshakes, the air kisses. Ben smiled until his face hurt.
They were seated at a round table laden with crystal and silver. The first course arrived some kind of delicate amuse-bouche that Ben didn't taste. The conversation was a careful ballet.
"...and the marina renovations are finally complete," Robert was saying, sipping his wine. "Took an act of God and the city council, but the old girl has never looked better."
Now. Ben felt Clara's gaze like a laser on the side of his face. He leaned in, deploying his charm. "It's that respect for heritage that I admire, Robert. It's exactly the philosophy we're applying to the Jefferson Harbor Project. We're not just building new infrastructure; we're weaving it into the city's maritime soul. The new design actually incorporates visual motifs from the original 19th-century shipyard cranes."
Robert's eyes lit up. "Is that so? Now that's thinking!"
Elsa turned to Clara. "Your fiancé has a poet's soul for concrete and steel, my dear."
Clara laughed, a light, tinkling sound that was utterly convincing. "He has his moments, Elsa. But don't let him near a garden. I showed him a blackspot on my roses last week, and he suggested calling a structural engineer." The table laughed. Ben forced a chuckle. Clara's performance was masterful. She was charming, witty, attentive. She laughed at Robert's stories, asked Elsa insightful questions about her charity board, and seamlessly guided the conversation back to the merger's benefits whenever it strayed.
Ben watched her, a strange hollow feeling spreading in his chest. She was perfect. And it was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen. This wasn't his Clara. This was Sterling's Clara. A flawless, beautiful asset. And he was just another accessory she was wearing tonight.
As dessert was served, Charles smoothly took over, detailing the final investment figures. Ben's role was done. He sat back, his smile fixed, feeling like a ghost at the feast. He looked out the window at the endless city lights, the same lights Ella and Jax were probably under right now, living a real, messy, honest life. A wave of such profound, gut-wrenching longing hit him he had to look down at his plate.
God, what have I done?
The dinner ended with handshakes and compliance to "move forward swiftly." In the silent elevator ride down to the valet, the mask finally.Clara leaned against the mirrored wall, closing her eyes for a brief second, a flicker of exhaustion crossing her perfect features before she straightened up.
"You did adequately," she said, not looking at him.
"Adequately. Great." The bitterness leaked out.
She finally looked at him. In the elevator's cold light, she just looked tired. "It's over. We performed. That's all that matters."
The black town car arrived. They got in. As it pulled into the night, Ben looked at the woman beside him, fuck! She's looking more beautiful tonight,I can't resist....I just can't.At this moment I just want to forget how cold she's been acting towards me lately.Seeing that emeralds on her neck...shit! Just makes her more alluring.
"Ben ringing so many thoughts in his head."
Clara turned,and saw Ben staring at her...
Why are you glaring at me like that Ben?
Ben looked away quickly,and cleared is throat.
He was silent.
For God's sake why did I turn?
"He murmured."
Isn't she my fiance?
Why do I seem scared?
You know what?"damn it!
Before he knew it.He pulled Clara into his embrace,and crashed his....