“It wasn’t in the brief you handed me.”
“It didn’t need to be.” She finishes slipping the last page into her portfolio. “You prefer digital copies.”
She’s right. That’s what infuriates me.
“We’re not operating on preference, Quinn. We’re operating on protocol.”
“Then perhaps update the written protocol,” she replies, voice even, impossible to fault. “Half of your analysts rely exclusively on digital repositories now. Streamlining seems practical.”
A polite, controlled, but unmistakable challenge in her voice makes my jaw tick once before I smooth it away.
“You’re an external audit, not the architect.”
“Good architects welcome correction,” she says. “Even the talented ones.”
That earns her my full attention. Slowly, deliberately, I lean closer to her, not enough to breach professionalism, but close enough she’ll feel the gravitational pull of the tension between us.
Her spine stands straight, her breath artificially calm.
I test her again, because I can’t help it. “What’s your evaluation on the east-wing nodes?”
“I already stated it in the meeting.”
“I’m asking you now.”
Her eyes narrow slightly.
“Then I’ll repeat it: the nodes won’t withstand a distributed attack at scale. They need restructuring.”
“You’re presuming the threat level.”
“I’m quantifying it. If you’d like the math again, I can send it.”
And just like that, she stays maddeningly calm, no crack in her exterior.
I find myself pushing because she refuses to push back, and somehow that feels worse.
“And if I told you your projections were flawed?” I press.
She closes her laptop with an almost soundless click.
“Then I would show you why they’re not.”
No hesitation, nor resentment flickers across her face. It’s the lack of emotion that needles me because she used to be fire wrapped in nerves, sparks in human form. Now she stands polished, armored, untouchable.
The room hovers in a strange equilibrium, thick enough to feel, thin enough to break with a breath. The tension between our bodies is so thick it can be cut with a knife. Then, with controlled poise, she nods once, breaking the spell.
“If that’s all, I have a secondary review to prepare.”
“You’re dismissed,” I say anyway, because formality is the only weapon left in this moment.
She leaves without hurry. The door clicks shut behind her, and the mirrored walls catch the faint ghost of her silhouette long after she’s gone.
I linger, watching her reflection assemble itself in careful fragments—eye, jawline, throat, the sweep of hair pinned back; it feels like studying a puzzle I once solved carelessly, only to discover the pieces no longer fit.
I wonder whether she hates me enough to try to dismantle everything I’ve built. The surprising thing is that I don’t care.
Maybe that’s the problem.
