He sits again, posture relaxed, gaze direct. “I’ll be blunt,” he says. “Your situation at Voss & Bartley is unstable.”
My spine tightens. “You don’t know my situation.”
“I know enough,” he replies softly. “Enough to understand you’re vulnerable. Enough to understand Anthony Voss isn’t the kind of man who lets go of control gracefully. And enough to see an opportunity where you might not.”
I stare at him, trying to decide whether I want to throw my coffee at his face or simply stand up and walk out. The problem is, I can’t afford to do either. Not emotionally. Not financially. Not when my life has turned into a series of doors that slam if I hesitate. “What opportunity?” I say.
He leans forward just a fraction, like we’re sharing a secret. “I’m offering you a role,” he says. “A meaningful one. Competitive compensation. Discretion. A clean exit from a messy environment.”
“I’m salaried for 300k a year right now,” I say, “That’s double my last salary. Why would you do that for me?”
Aidan’s eyes brighten. There it is—the question he wanted. The opening. “Because,” he says, voice smooth as a knife, “I believe in mutually beneficial arrangements.”
My stomach twists at the phrase, like my body recognizes it as a trap even if my brain wants to argue.
“You’ve been working closely with Anthony. You’ve seen how his business operates. You’ve been in rooms other employees haven’t. You’re… close.” His gaze flicks to my midsection for halfa second before returning to my face. “And that closeness creates leverage.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I’m not leverage.”
Aidan’s smile widens, patient. “Everyone is leverage,” he says, gentle as if he’s explaining gravity. “The difference is whether you let someone else use you, or you use the situation first.”
I tighten my grip on my bag strap. “What do you actually want?”
He taps once on the table, a rhythmic little gesture that feels rehearsed. “I want Anthony’s star communications manager,” he says. “I want you. You’re the kind of talent you don’t let go unless you have to.” His eyes hold mine. “And I want the satisfaction of watching his narrative unravel.”
My chest goes cold. “So this is revenge.”
Aidan’s smile doesn’t change. “Call it strategy.”
“And what do I get,” I ask, forcing the words through a throat that feels too tight, “besides being a pawn in your war?”
“Security,” he says immediately. “Money. A future. And the pleasure of seeing a man who wronged you pay for it.”
Wronged me?
The phrase sinks claws into the softest part of my ribs because it’s close enough to the truth to be seductive. Anthony lied. Anthony decided things without me. Anthony offered me money when I needed honesty. Anthony made me feel like I mattered, and then made me feel like a clause.
For one poisoned second, revenge tastes sweet in my imagination.
Then the image shifts.
Anthony’s hand around mine on the sofa. His voice in my ear when I couldn’t breathe. His forehead kiss, the kind that felt like a promise.
And the sweetness rots on my tongue.
I swallow hard. “I don’t want revenge,” I say, surprised by how steady it comes out.
Aidan studies me like I’ve become more interesting. “You should,” he says softly. “It’s empowering.”
“It’s exhausting,” I reply.
His gaze sharpens. “Do you think that because you were… close?”
I push back in my chair. “I’m not discussing that.”
Aidan holds up one hand, placating. “Fair.” He slides a folder across the table anyway. Probably an offer letter. I don’t pick it up. I stand instead, letting my chair scrape back audibly.
Aidan doesn’t look surprised. He looks entertained, like he knew I’d do this and it was part of the calculus.
