When I finally reached my desk, I paused, staring at the perfectly arranged papers and the sleek screen of my laptop. This was usually the moment I felt centered—when the familiar structure of my routine reclaimed me. Instead, a restlessness clung to me, stubborn and unshakable. My mind kept circling back to last night's conversation with Carter. His words still echoed in my head when a knock at the door snapped me back. I looked up to see Mrs. Pierce, my boss, framed in the doorway. Her gaze was as stern as ever, but laser-focused, which could only mean one thing: the impending meeting.
"Fiona," Mrs. Pierce said briskly, stepping inside. "We need to review tomorrow’s presentation again. I want every detail ironclad before we face the clients. There’s no room for error."
I nodded, immediately shifting into work mode. The knot in my stomach loosened slightly as I grasped at work as an escape—at least for now. "Of course, Mrs. Pierce," I said, standing. "I’m ready."
She led me to the large conference room, flooded with afternoon sunlight. Documents were spread across the long,polished table, the presentation pulled up on the wall-mounted screen. I knew how pivotal this meeting was. Tomorrow’s appointment with one of the firm’s most important clients would shape my career trajectory.
"Sit," Mrs. Pierce directed, taking her place at the head of the table. "We’ll go through this point by point. I need you prepared for every possible question tomorrow." The familiar pressure she wielded settled over me—a mix of demand and challenge I’d come to appreciate, even rely on, because it pushed me to excel.
"Let’s start with the key points," Mrs. Pierce began, gesturing to the first slides outlining the financial plan for the luxury development. "What if they challenge the pricing? The specs and architecture are impeccable, but our $50 million ask still leaves room for pushback. Do you have enough ammunition to defend it?"
I launched into my rationale for the pricing structure and negotiation strategy. Mrs. Pierce listened intently, interjecting with sharp questions, forcing me to seal every possible gap. It was grueling but necessary. With each detail, I felt myself sinking deeper into the work, the turmoil over Carter and my private life fading—temporarily.
Work gave me the control I so desperately craved in my personal life. Yet somewhere beneath the focus, I knew the questions Rachel had raised wouldn’t vanish so easily.
Nearly two hours later, as we finalized the last details, Mrs. Pierce leaned back and fixed me with a piercing look. "This is solid," she said finally. "But tomorrow, I expect perfection, Fiona. This is a major opportunity—for you and for us. Show them what you’re made of."
I nodded, willing the tension in my body to ease. "You can count on me, as always, Mrs. Pierce," I replied, voice steady. But inside, the pressure weighed heavier than ever.
Back in my office, as I made the final preparations for thenext day, thoughts of Carter came flooding back. It wasn't just professional responsibilities weighing on my shoulders - my personal life seemed to be unraveling simultaneously.
The discussion with Carter about our future had left me deeply unsettled. I'd always assumed marriage was a step I wanted to take. But now it felt suffocating, almost like a cage I needed to escape.
I opened my laptop and tried refocusing on the presentation, yet my gaze kept drifting unconsciously to the window, out to Miami's twilight. The city pulsed with life before me, but inside raged a storm of uncertainty and unanswered questions.
"Am I truly ready for what Carter wants?" I whispered, staring into the distance. The question echoed in my mind, and I knew I'd need to find an answer soon.
Yet tomorrow was crucial. I'd spent weeks meticulously preparing for this meeting, knowing how pivotal it was for my career. The multi-million dollar real estate deal we were negotiating represented a rare opportunity - one I'd fought hard to lead as project manager for the prestigious Dade County development.
This wasn't just about money. The deal's implications would ripple through the industry's power structures and hierarchies.
Two
Alexander Russo
The black Bentley came to a soundless halt before the glass entrance of Pierce & Clarke. I remained seated in the car a moment longer. It wasn’t about making anyone wait—it was a matter of timing. When I entered a room, I did so on my terms. A faint vibration pierced the silence as my phone lit up. The call was overdue.
"Yes?" My voice remained calm.
"Everything is ready, but there's a delay with the transfer. It's being handled discreetly," came the reply, laced with a hint of nervousness.
I paused, letting the moment hang in the air. "Discreet isn’t enough." My voice was sharp, but not loud. It didn’t need to be. The message was clear.
"Understood. It will be done."
I ended the call. In my world, it wasn’t just about deals and negotiations—it was about power. And power revealed itself in the details. I set the phone aside and let my gaze drift through the tinted windows. People hurried along the street, lost in their own little dramas.
Max, my chauffeur, opened the door, and I stepped out of the car. Sunlight hit me, but my steps remained cool and measured. Nothing about me suggested haste, even though time was pressing. As I pushed open the grand glass doors, the familiar scent of freshly polished marble and expensive leather enveloped me. The Pierce & Clarke building was a reflection of the firm itself—sleek, flawless, and yet soulless.
I knew what awaited me. I was playing the lawyer for Thompson, who had gotten it into his damn head that he needed a new property on Fisher Island. The $50 million Dade County deal was an impressive figure, but that was just the surface. It was about far more. It was always about more.
The elevator opened silently, and as I studied the mirrored wall inside, my eyes caught my own reflection. The dark gray suit fit perfectly, my dark hair styled precisely back. For every role in my life, there was a matching look. I could be the perfect lawyer, like here for Thompson—polished suit, calm and composed mask. In negotiations that took place in the shadows, I was precise, unyielding, always one step ahead. And then there were the moments when the façade no longer mattered. When necessary, I took great pleasure in beating the shit out of someone. Some things were settled with words, and then there were people who occasionally needed a very clear reminder of who was in charge. Every movement, every detail about me was meticulously calculated. In my life, there was no room for accidents.
The doors slid open, and I stepped out, moving down the hallway toward the conference room. The atmosphere shifted palpably as I pushed the glass door aside. The room was filled with suited figures, and for a suspended moment, they all paused as I entered. Unspoken, but unmistakable: they knew I had arrived.
I let my gaze sweep the room without directly scrutinizing those present. Yet my mind registered everything—Mrs. Pierce’s practiced smile, the discomfort of some junior associates. And then my eyes caught on her. Fiona Robertson. She sat at the table, posture rigidly composed, her dark shoulder-length hair falling softly over her shoulders as if it, too, were as disciplined as she was. She wore a navy suit with a white blouse beneath—understated yet perfectly chosen to accentuate her dark eyes,which were fixed on me with a sharpness I rarely encountered. She was no novice, that much was immediately clear. And she was certainly not a woman who was easily impressed—least of all by someone like me. I liked that.
It was as if she were assessing me, like a hunter waiting for her opponent to make the first mistake. Her professionalism was undeniable, yes, but it was the control she exerted over the space around her that struck me. No flashy jewelry, nothing superfluous—just a cool elegance that set her apart from most. Women in this industry often tried to assert themselves through bold details. Not Fiona. She didn’t need decorative insignias to prove what she was capable of.
