“You think I don’t know that?”
I cross my arms. “Then why the theatrics?”
He gestures to the projection, letting it rotate slowly between angles. “Because it’s not about whatyouthink it was. It’s about what everyone else saw. A Montana woman, laughing in the arms of a lizard. That’s how they’ll frame it. Agree with the bureaucracy, it will benefit them more, I'm telling you. That alien you're seeing will be happy to see you support the cause.”
I flinch. He sees it. Helovesthat he sees it.
“I don't believe a word you say,” I snap.
His eyebrows rise just slightly. “You’re defending him, their kind?”
“No. I’m defending myself. Fromthis,” I wave at the air, “from your smug, manipulative bullshit.”
Dennis sighs like I’m a child who’s misbehaving at dinner. “Kristi. I’m not your enemy.”
“You sure about that?”
He leans forward, folding his fingers beneath his chin. “Is it serious?”
That question lands like a brick to the gut.
“No,” I say.
Too fast. Too defensive. Too obvious.
Dennis smiles like a man who’s already counted the bullets in the next war.
“Then keep it that way.”
I stare at him.
“That’s it?” I ask. “You summon me like some corporate minion, slap my face on a propaganda wheel, imply I’m compromising my career, my safety, my—mylegacy—and that’s all you have to say? ‘Keep it that way’?”
“What else is there to say?” His tone is silk pulled tight over steel. “You already made the mistake. I’m giving you the out. Take it.”
I push back from the table, hard enough that my chair scrapes across the polished stone like a scream.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just sips his tea again.
“It’s not always about control, Dennis,” I say, voice trembling with something I don’t want to name. “Some of us are just trying to breathe.”
He glances away, watching the lights of the city blink alive below us.
“You’ve got two choices,” he says. “Play the game. Or get played.”
“I’m done playing.”
“Then get ready to lose. You're gonna agree to this, whether you like it or not.”
“Damn you.”
I literally don't have a choice. And it's making me sick.
I don’t remember getting home. The walk back is a blur of too-bright streetlights and damp concrete and the taste of ash on the back of my tongue. By the time I reach my building, I feel like my skin doesn’t fit right anymore.
I don’t go inside.
Not yet.
