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Chapter Text

Today, I couldn't help but notice a particularly vexatious woman wearing a satin, Bordeaux burgundy blouse.

The very colour I set aside to wear every Thursday.

A specific shade of red that everyone else in the firm understood was off-limits. It was an unspoken rule—that I'd officially unofficially trademarked certain palettes—so people knew better than to colour-coordinate their wardrobe with mine unless they didn't value their jobs. And in all of my three years working at SEGA LLP, nobody ever dared to overstep their bounds. But not anymore, it would seem. All thanks to one social recusant who's made it her life's mission to oppose me in every possible matter.

Amelia Rose... the bane of my existence.

She was like a stubborn thorn that's dug itself so deep into my flesh and wrapped around my neck, refusing to let go until I asphyxiate. But I don't plan on it. Instead, I'll keep persevering, if only to watch her cry blood when I eventually become junior partner.

We both despised each other with a burning passion. And I doubted either one of us knew exactly when or why our rivalry had started. But my guess would be ever since we crossed paths four years ago. The memory burned into my mind — of the way her eyelids fell menacingly when I offered her an amiable smile, or how she'd tucked her hands away inside her arms when I extended mine for a handshake. It didn't take long to realize that Amelia had already set her mind against ever liking me, despite my multiple attempts at amending our disconnect. If not personally, we could at least manage to maintain a professional relationship. But she didn't much like that idea. So here we are... seated across from each other. Bitter rivals until the very end.

My eyes never waver from her cunning emerald iris; all the while Sonic reads off a torrent of details about a much-coveted acquisition deal illuminated on the projector screen.

"Listen up, people!" His palms slam together twice, sending reverberating echoes throughout the room. As soon as the chatter dies down, he continues again. "If I could draw your attention to the front, please. I can see you're all foaming at the mouth. And while I appreciate the rabid enthusiasm — really — we've only been circling the appetizer. It's about time we finally sink our teeth into the main course."

Everybody immediately sits on edge. Junior associates observe from the sidelines, huddled at the back of the conference room, exchanging eager and curious whispers. Senior partners take their places near the head of the table, rubbing shoulders with expectant client reps who poise for action, paper and pens at the ready.

Amelia picks up her glittery pink fountain pen, clicks it. Her eyes still latched onto mine.

I do the same.

"Like I mentioned, we've got a billion-dollar strategic divestiture on our hands, which leaks to the press in exactly two weeks. Fashion house Maison Élan is looking to sell a majority stake to Virelli Group, and we need the best of the best handling this project. It's going to be a long six months of carving out assets, equity restructuring, IP transfers, and the list goes on and on. Now, I realize we've closed similar deals on a much tighter timeline before. But even still, I'm going to need my fastest soldier."

Sonic pauses to examine the young talent at the table. His eyes travel between all four of us senior associates, pretending to be considering his limited options when, realistically speaking, only Rose or I were best suited for this project. Inasmuch as I disliked the obnoxious woman, pretending that she was anything less than brilliant would be a bald-faced lie and an insult to my intellect. We were our only worthwhile opponents. Besides us two, anybody else would prove incompetent. Not Knuckles Echidna. Not Silver Hedgehog. Just me and Amelia Rose going head-to-head. And I didn't intend to lose to her. Not now, not ever.

"Might I suggest Shadow Hedgehog—"

Sonic waves a hand at me, and for the first time all morning, Amelia tears her gaze away abruptly. The pleasant sound of high-end suits rubbing against full-grain leather chairs cuts through the silence as every head in the room turns in my direction. But mine trails after Amelia, who looks quite wounded by Sonic's glowing recommendation. Such a distinction was precious and highly coveted, mind you.

Sonic didn't give those out very often. As a matter of fact, even throwaway compliments from the man were few and far between. I would've probably been shocked, too, if I were in her position—had Sonic not pulled me aside beforehand this morning to tell me I would be receiving his sought-after public endorsement.

"He's one of our promising senior associates at SEGA LLP, and I can confidently assure you that his experience in the fashion industry will expedite this process. He's helped close for three high-profile divestitures last year: Kervan Capital, Nuo Atelier, and Belmarque Holdings — each one exceeding forecasted valuation by double digits."

The healthy peach blush of Amelia's complexion suddenly begins to drain from her skin, and a smug satisfaction lifts my shoulders.

Score!

I win once again.

"Frankly put, Shadow Hedgehog is our best asset. He doesn't just know the law; Shadow knows the language of fashion, given how he's walked numerous runway shows in the past and dined with big-league editors. He's got my stamp of approval to take the helm, but he's going to need yours as well if we're going to move forward." The client reps press their pens to paper and begin to scribble something on their clipboards, hanging onto our senior partner's every word.

Everything he said was true. Before finally deciding to pursue a career as a mergers and acquisitions lawyer, I briefly leaned toward the modelling scene. At the height of my success, I'd amassed about two million followers on Instagram — a few hundred short of Maison Élan's present-day two million, seven hundred followers. And even after leaving some eight years ago, my reputation still carries a good amount of import... which is precisely why Sonic had conferred with me to take charge of this divestiture.

"Ah, mais oui." A heavy French accent cuts in after Sonic, from Maison Élan's client rep. He lingers on my face, silently studying the sharp edges of my jaw, the pointedness of my nose, and the unmistakable shade of my vermillion eyes. "I knew I'ave seen you somewhere before — from Louis Vuitton's autumn-winter collection, deux mille vingt-huit. Vous étiez ombre sur la soie."

Shadow on silk.

My old stage name.

"Je ne vois plus la jeunesse," he continues, "Your youth... it has faded like aged wine."

"Je vous remercie."

I catch Amelia opening her mouth to speak, but I quickly interject. "Maison Élan has built quite a remarkable brand as a sophisticated, renaissance-inspired couture house. All of your pieces... they are simply magnifique."

I set my pen aside and let my hands travel up to adjust the printed silk tie wrapped around my neck. A strategic choice I made this morning (incorporating the brand's best-selling piece in my outfit), and it would seem it paid off. A knowing smile spreads across the Élan rep's lips as his eyes flicker with instant recognition. "Nice tie," he says.

Through my periphery, I spy Amelia rolling her eyes... hard.

The bitter bitch.

But I stay the course and coolly press on with my elevator's pitch. "I'm glad you noticed." I push back from the table and rise to my feet. "Élan has always been a staple in my closet — which is why, if you allow me to represent you, my top priority will be retaining the brand's integrity. To make sure you don't lose a decade's worth of passion, blood, sweat and tears in a slew of confusing paperwork."

"Bravo! Bravo! What a moving speech!"

Out of nowhere, a quiet applause catches my attention, and then everybody else's.

She moves out of her seat, slow and deliberate. Her heels click rhythmically against the polished marble floor, like a metronome keeping time with my patience, stalking its way up to the projector screen.

"Optics are great and all, Mr. Hedgehog. But this is a strategic divestiture, not a photoshoot — and strategy demands a little less sentimentality and a lot more foresight."

"I beg your pardon?"

What on earth could she possibly be up to now?

A dangerous grin traces her lips as she turns toward the client reps. "Maison Élan has built its legacy on the language of luxury — artistry, exclusivity, craftsmanship. But Virelli Group isn't buying a story. They're buying leverage. Market growth. Scalability."

She taps a manicured finger against the illuminated chart on-screen — a sleek display of projections and revenue streams she must've stayed up all night curating. Her natural familiarity with the information immediately gave it away... and here I thought Sonic had his secretary piece together the presentation.

"Exhibit one: your most recent collection, Élan Renaissance. It reported an eight percent uptick in digital engagement yet suffered a twelve percent lag in Italian silk shipments. The result? Missed deadlines. Missed revenue. And a supply chain bottleneck that's bleeding profit margins in your Paris atelier."

The French rep blinks, his pen hovering mid-air. "You—how do you know about zat?"

"I read," she replies pertly, a glimmer of mischief playing fireworks behind her emerald-green eyes. "And occasionally, I listen when your logistics director, Monsieur Leclerc, complains over champagne at the Ritz."

A ripple of laughter moves through the room. Sonic leans back, arms folded, clearly entertained.

She circles back to the projector, tone sharpening with precision. "Maison Élan doesn't need another lawyer who looks good in silk ties. You need an M&A strategist who understands how to preserve your legacy while maximizing your equity. Someone who can translate creative genius into sustainable, long-term profitability."

I feel my jaw flex involuntarily. The witch is grandstanding — and what's worse is it's working.

Her voice softens, smooth as velvet. "Fashion fades, messieurs. But structure — the right structure — never does."

Then she looks at me. Dead in the eye. "So if you're asking who should represent you — the man who's worn a couple of your designs..." She pauses, letting the silence hang, electric and smug. "...or the woman who can make sure you never have to sell them again — I think the choice is obvious."

Murmurs erupt across the boardroom.

I spot the client reps nod their heads approvingly, like a collection of bobbleheads on a ramshackle car. The ramshackle car that is rose, which will inevitably crash and burn, given enough time. One of them leans toward another. I hear him mutter, "Elle a du feu dans le sang."

She has fire in her blood.

And just like that, the tide shifts. I had the rug pulled from beneath my feet.

Amelia steps back from the projector, offering a modest smile that somehow manages to look both gracious and infuriatingly self-satisfied. Sonic clears his throat, trying (and failing) to hide the curve of amusement tugging at his mouth.

I force a smile. A tight, practiced thing that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

Score one for Rose... I guess.

But this isn't over.

Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

Despite my unaffected demeanour, I can still feel my heart threatening to burst out of my chest — not because I had, somehow, managed to win over Maison Élan and Virelli Group's client reps, but because of the large, terrifying man gaining on me across the lobby.

"Care to explain what the hell just happened in there?" Venomous menace laces the deep gruffness of his voice. I can feel his gaze searing holes into my back, hounding after me like a determined predator hunting elusive prey. But I don't dare look back or say a word.

My only hope of avoiding him banks on the off chance that nobody would be in the elevator car once I turn the corner. Or, at least, I just hoped there wouldn't be a stampede of staff pouring out the doors. Otherwise, having to weave through a throng of bodies will slow me down, providing Shadow with enough time to bridge the distance between us — and the opportunity to rip my head clean off my neck.

"I know you can fucking hear me, Rose!"

Shit! Shit! Shit!

My shoulders tense up. I can sense Shadow drawing nearer, so I make a sharp left, narrowly avoiding Vanilla Rabbit, SEGA LLP's HR manager — and contender for the world's nosiest person. EVER.

"I'm still waiting on that consensual relationship disclosure form, Amelia!" She immediately whirls around and hurries after me. I pick up the pace, but I can't seem to quite escape her. "It's been two years too long of having to play these childish cat-and-mouse games. I want it on my desk by next Thursday at the latest, you hear me."

Oh, for God's sake!

I didn't need another person breathing down my neck today, especially not Vanilla Rabbit. Every time I cross paths with this woman, she is constantly trying to cough up a love contract from me. Seriously! I really wish she would just give it a rest already! I've lost count of how many times I keep telling her that Shadow and I were enemies at best and — God forbid — frenemies at worst (because I would rather tender my resignation than be forced to strike up any semblance of a friendship with that narcissistic bastard). We can hardly go a moment without wanting to slit the other's throat. That is how deep our animosity runs — so why on earth would we want to get in each other's pants? Pray tell, what exactly about our mutual disdain screams "sexual chemistry"?

"And the same thing goes for you, Mr. Hedgehog." She calls down the hallway, hollering desperately, panting and gasping for air, until she eventually falls behind with my speed. "It's company policy, remember?"

"Oh, fuck off, Vanilla! Both you and the company policy!"

I glance over my shoulders and glimpse the older woman clutching her pearls, one hand dramatically glued to her heaving chest. Meanwhile, Shadow continues his pursuit, all but unbothered, as if he hadn't just committed a textbook HR violation. As if nothing were amiss. Truly, it still baffles me how he gets to keep his job after all these years of dishing out disrespect left, right, and center.

"See that there, Vanilla?" I shout back. "That, right there, is why there is absolutely nothing between me and that psychopath!"

Shadow's manic stare latches onto mine, his eyes bloodshot with fresh indignation. "Oh, so you can hear me, after all!"

My strides grow wider, faster, and increasingly panicked. I'm less composed than I'd like to appear. Rattled? Sure. But not entirely overcome that I would break into a mad sprint and have everybody staring at me — partners, clients, and associates — all eying me as though I've gone mad out of my mind. This was all part of Shadow's intimidation tactic: setting me up to embarrass myself. But I wasn't going to give the asshole any such satisfaction. Instead, I manage to hold myself together as elegantly as possible while I turn another corner.

A clear line of the elevator doors sliding open comes into view. And as luck would have it, the car was mostly unoccupied — except for two accountants who, I noticed, were exiting the elevator with an unnatural sense of urgency and the palest of expressions. Judging by the unmistakable look of horror etched onto their faces, it was probably because the devil incarnate was hovering behind me like a black storm cloud, closing in with swift and blind fury. And no. Their eyes weren't deceiving them. I just so happen to have the great misfortune of meeting with said devil on occasion, like at today's project kickoff. Which is why I can personally attest that the man had, in fact, clawed out of hell and assumed the form of an enraged acquisitions lawyer. What's more, I'm absolutely certain he has every intention of dragging me down under with him. But I wasn't going to make it so easy for him.

A few feet away from safety, and I can feel my heart rate settling into a somewhat natural pace. When, out of nowhere, as if he'd magically teleported to my side, Shadow yanks my arm hard and I pirouette, slamming full-force into his chest.

"You and I need to have a little talk," he sneers. Then, without giving me so much as a second to reorient myself, he drags me into the elevator as if I were a travel suitcase at customs and shoves me against the cold metal wall.

Shadow turns his back on me, pressing the doors closed before pivoting to face me again.

I keep my gaze purposefully averted from him while finding my bearings. His ragged, uneven breathing fills the quiet — and although I can't quite see him clearly, I suspect his body is writhing with barely contained rage.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks. And I shoot him a sidelong glare, coupled with an unapologetic grin that screams, "Immensely."

"Could you please try to hurry up, Blaze? We're already running late as is."

"We are?" Her dazzling amber eyes snap wide open. "But, Amy, that doesn't make any sense. We literally started prepping an hour early to avoid the evening rush, so there's no possible way..."

Blaze's voice trails off as she moves up and out from the vanity desk to collect her phone, buried beneath a thick mound of rumpled duvet. She taps the screen twice to check the time. Meanwhile, I'm hunched over my bed on the other side of the room, stuffing my beige Louis Vuitton tote (which I borrowed from Blaze's closet) full of crucial essentials. Like blotting paper, for instance.

Why, you ask?

Well, for all I know, I could get really lucky and manage to snag a selfie with a certain handsome celebrity tonight. And there's no fucking way I'll be looking a sweaty and oily mess in the Getty.

Then there was also my press pass, for entry and seating — obviously.

And I'm definitely going to want to keep a packet of breath mints on me, because the last thing I want is to make a smelly impression. Can you imagine? Me — finally within a two-foot radius of him — only to open my mouth and unleash a citrusy-onion stink bomb from last night's Pad Thai we ordered near Times Square?

No. Absolutely not. I refuse to become the next blind item to dominate gossip columns.

Oh! And how can I possibly forget the lens cleaner for my chunky black glasses?

On any other day, I couldn't care less if my vision was cloudy with smudges and streaked with odd smears. But not today. These were especially invaluable because nothing — and I mean nothing! — is going to get in the way of my getting the perfect picture of all the breathtaking winter-fall pieces at tonight's Louis Vuitton fashion show. And to make extra sure that everything goes exceptionally smoothly, I rummage through my side drawer for a small yet powerful battery pack, just in case my baby-pink mirrorless digicam decides to die on me... which it shouldn't, considering it's supposed to have a 4-hour battery life. But you can never be too prepared, is what I like to think.

"I swear, you're either as blind as a bat or dyslexic, Amy." Blaze's voice weasels into my analytical deliberation. She sighs, sashaying over to my side. "You see this here?" A blinding phone screen suddenly appears in front of my face. I wince and draw back. But no matter where I turn to escape the brightness, Blaze follows my movement with annoyingly perfect precision. Ugh.

"How is it that, even with glasses on, you can't seem to see that this says quarter to six? — Not quarter past nine."

"I can read the time fine, alright, Blaze. I just don't want us running even one second late." I swat her phone onto my bed, then resume my sedulous packing. "It's just like the old adage goes. Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable."

She releases a breathy chuckle, circling back to the vanity mirror, and plants herself comfortably into the plush, velvet ottoman. "You know, Ames... I don't think I've ever met a more professional overthinker than you in my entire life."

"Yeah, well, I'm not usually this intense."

"Oh really?" The tenor of her voice drips with biting sarcasm. "Somehow I doubt that, though."

"Believe whatever you want. But I'm a woman on a mission tonight, and I can't afford any disruptions or hiccups."

Another breathy sound escapes her lips. "More like a die-hard fan," she mutters not-so-quietly, applying a thick coat of red lipstick to finish up her chic, office siren's aesthetic.

From the corner of my periphery, I spy her pull open a drawer and extract a sparkling pair of oval-cut citrine earrings. After putting those on, she slides a princess-cut citrine stone on her index finger. And then another simple yet elegant citrine statement piece, to wrap around her dainty, slender neck. Believe it or not, Blaze's one and only job was exactly that: exuding unimaginable levels of wealth, luxury, and opulence. She doesn't have to work a day in her life; money simply spawns inside her bank account. That was the wonderful thing about being the heiress of a shopping mall conglomerate. It was the best unofficial, official job there is — rather than having to slave through ten long years of law school. But unfortunately, I wasn't lucky enough to escape the clutches of generational poverty... quite yet.

I can sense Blaze's gaze tracking my hurried movement through the mirror.

"Spit it out already. You're practically foaming at the mouth, so ask away."

"Oh, you know me so well!" She whirls around on the ottoman, leans back against the vanity desk, then crosses both her arms and legs together. "Is this because of that... uh, what's his name again?"

"Black silk, yes," I answer. "Also known as Shadow on Silk. But me, personally, I prefer the latter. It sounds so much more—"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, okay. I don't need the whole rundown... but, yeah. Him. I'll never understand why everyone's so goddamn obsessed with the dude."

"And that is perfectly alright, sweetheart." I stand up from my slouch and amble towards the vanity. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it. Just make sure to get me backstage after the show, and I promise to love you forever and ever and ever!"

I plant a heartfelt kiss on Blaze's right cheek. "Aww, how awfully sweet of you."

"You're welcome!" I spin on my heels and gently collapsed onto her thighs, smothering the rest of her face with light pecks and smooches.

"I didn't realise your love for me comes with a price tag attached to it."

"Well, then, it's a good thing you'll never run out of money."

Chapter Text

"Lose the smirk or lose a tooth, Rose."

"Well, isn't that a new low." She sighs in mock disappointment, shaking her head as if she were holding a conversation with a petulant toddler. It was as if she were dealing with somebody hopelessly immature, instead of a well-adjusted adult who's spent years on end clawing up the ranks. Imagine racking up thousands of billable hours and essentially dedicated half your life to SEGA LLP — only to have all of that hard work come undone just when the goal is within arm's reach. All because of one maddening person.

"But I can't say I'm surprised," Amelia drawls. A pause. Then she drops her gaze down to my neck. "It really doesn't take much for you to reveal your true self, now does it, Mr. Fist-For-Brains?"

A twisted delight plays behind her emerald eyes, revelling in the pulsing veins pushing out of my skin, straining beneath my chafing collar. Her eyes follow the sinuous trail, working up to the sharp edges of my taut jaw before settling on the ominous heat soiling my otherwise placid complexion.

"Guess that means I must be doing something right, then."

The sound of it — that airy, mocking tone grating against my nerves. The flicker of amusement blooming across her skin in shades of peaches and reds... that insufferable vibrant glow taunting me — testing my already waning patience.

When, suddenly, something snaps inside me, and my hand shoots out from my side.

The impact crackles through the air as it meets the wall beside Amelia's head. The noise echoes, sharp and final. And for a brief second, I think she might actually react. Blink. Flinch. Anything.

But she doesn't.

Only stands there, all calm and collected, while my blood continues to boil and spill over like a whistling stovetop kettle.

"How disappointing," she mutters under her breath and releases another derisive sigh. Her fingers run a quick sweep over her sleek, high ponytail with poised and practiced indifference — an insulting gesture that, somehow, manages to cut deeper than any scathing retort ever could. But that was the intended effect, and I was going to let it get to me. Either she was ignoring me or trying to downplay just how much the blow had affected her. But whatever the case, one thing was for certain: Amelia Rose wasn't going to let me see her sweat.

Not now.

Not ever.

"It shouldn't be all talk and no bite with you, Shadow," she finally speaks again, her tone sugarcoated venom. "Since you're so hellbent on throwing everything away because you can't handle a little fucking rejection like a mature fucking adult, at least follow through on your word and hit me! Go ahead! — I'd honestly love to see you out of a job once HR gets word about it. I'm sure Vanilla would be more than relieved not having to chase us down to sign those ridiculous disclosure forms anymore. So unless you mean business, you know where to find me. Twelfth floor, workstation 15B. You know the one. And try to aim properly next time, alright?"

The words settle between us like a muleta — bright red and daring. She wants me to take the bait. She wants me to explode and prove her right.

But I lean closer instead, voice low. Deliberate and even.

"Don't mistake that for a threat, Rose. It's a promise, so back the fuck off while I'm being nice," I sneer, stepping in close enough that she can feel the heat rolling off my body. So that there was absolutely no room for doubt about my intention. "This deal is mine to close."

"Oh, really?" Her response comes with surgical precision. Two words as sharp as glass.

"Or what?"

—and that was the spark that hit the powder keg I've been struggling to keep sealed these past few weeks.

I should walk away, and I should walk away right now. The voices of every senior partner echo in my head — Sonic's especially. Stay composed. And never let emotion cloud judgment. Only a few months until partner selection. One little mistake can easily set you back another five years. So don't fucking screw up!

But how am I supposed to keep it together when she looks at me like that — chin high, eyes gleaming with an irresistible challenge that I couldn't possibly ignore? She's daring me to do something stupid, and God help me, I want to. I want to rip that ponytail loose and have it scatter across her shoulders and ruin that carefully put-together facade of hers. I'd like to wipe that shit-eating smirk off her face, pin her by the neck, and squeeze just enough to break her composure. It'd only be a matter of seconds before she's squirming and gasping for air and can't stand it any longer. Until she's left with no other choice than to give in, finally forced to concede. She'll be begging. Pleading for me to loosen my grip, her nails desperately digging into the firm muscles of my wrist, until...

The distance between us evaporates, charged with something I refuse to name.

I can feel it — the faint scent of her perfume luring me in like a Venus flytrap. Her floral fragrance enticing me to my demise. The slow rise and fall of her chest reels in my attention. The soft curve of her cleavage, peering from beneath the dangerous plunge of her satin burgundy office shirt.

AHEM!

My eyes snap back to Amelia's face. A smug line spreads across her plump, red lips.

"You find anything down there yet?"

Then the realization of what had just happened sets in like a sudden rush of ice-cold water.

My eyes squeeze shut, and my brows knit tightly together. But even in the dark cover of my eyelids, a faint image of her triumphant expression still lingers. Because as sad as it is to admit, the truth was that Amelia Rose is stuck in my head. She always has been. And I don't know where to begin to force her out.

My only respite comes deep into the night, after reviewing and finalizing purchase agreements and the like, when I step foot outside this building. Aside from those precious few hours away from work, trying to avoid Amelia for longer than an hour never quite pans out. And it certainly doesn't help that we work in the same fucking practice group. So, yeah... chances are we're either staffed on coinciding cases or fighting to outcompete each other for the next high-profile project — like this Virelli-Élan divestiture.

I've seen Amelia in action one too many times not to understand how she operates. She's like a cunning fox that slips into a room and steals away with an undeserved, fat meal. Always skulks in the background, waiting for me to do the heavy lifting before jumping in and swiping my hard-earned kill. Unnerving me, playing fast and loose with my emotions. Then all reason goes to hell, and pure anger takes over.

But as tempting as it feels right now to lay my hands on her, I drag in a laboured breath, forcing my expression flat. "Careful, Rose," I say, voice low, tense, dangerous. "Keep poking the bear, and don't be surprised when it bites."

She leans in, pushing her heels off the ground just enough for her warm breath to brush my jaw. "Then bite."

And for one brief, reckless moment, I almost do.

Almost.

But I don't — because that would mean admitting there's something more than rivalry simmering under the surface, and I would much rather die than ever acknowledge that possibility.

"Is that all?" Rose cocks her head, unphased. Meanwhile I'm standing motionless, paralyzed with anger.

"Well, if that's everything, you'll have to excuse me." She moves to cut around me, but I snap back to my senses, grab her by the wrist, and pull her against the wall.

"Are you going to actually punch me this time, or what?"

"I can do a lot worse than a fake out. Believe me."

"Then let me make myself very clear!" She wrestles her wrist free from my grip. "Listen, Shadow," she presses a finger to my chest, coming dangerously close to my face, our breaths intermingling. Then she tugs on my tie and sneers. "I don't care how many threats you make or how many times you try to elbow me out of meetings so you can kiss up to the client reps. I couldn't care less if you bribe analysts with exclusive industry invites to feed you intel before they can give it to me. And I sure as hell don't give a flying fuck whatever ugly, nasty rumour you cook up about me because — guess what. I've heard them all before.

She tugs once more on my tie, voice dropping below a whisper.

"Sink as low as you will, fist-for-brains. But you'll have to rip this deal from my cold, dead hands."

Fine.

Have it your way.

Challenge accepted.