I took something that wasn’t mine to touch, wrapped my ego as a gift, tied it with a pretty ribbon, and tried to hand it to her like she should be grateful. Like she should smile and say thank you for the mirror I was holding up, one that reflected my own arrogant, lonely, empty face staring back at me.
I wasn’t helping.
I was conquering.
The realization settles heavy in my chest, a cold, sinking weight that doesn’t let up. This is what conquest looks like when you strip away the language that makes it palatable. This is what power does when it mistakes itself for benevolence.
My phone buzzes again.
Longer this time. Insistent. Angry.
REX CHEN.
I’ve ignored fourteen calls.
I stare at his name until it blurs slightly at the edges. My thumb hovers. For a moment, I consider throwing the phone across the room, letting it shatter against the glass.
Instead, I answer.
I put it on speaker and let the phone drop onto the coffee table between us, like a live grenade.
My voice comes out rough. Barely mine.
“What?”
“What?” Rex’s voice explodes from the phone, sharp enough to make me flinch. “WHAT? Leo, where the hell are you? I have investors lined up, Good Morning America wants an exclusive with you and the girl, and I’m hearing she’s CLOSED? That she locked the door? You were supposed to HANDLE HER!”
The words scrape against my nerves.
“She’s notthe girl,” I say quietly. My throat tightens around her name. “Her name is Tess.”
“I DON’T CARE if her name is Bambi!” he shouts. “You need to get down there and FIX THIS. The leak was perfect. The narrative was set. Billionaire genius scales local hero’s dream. It’s poetry. And you’re letting her RUIN IT.”
I don’t interrupt him.
For the first time, I don’t argue. I don’t reframe. I don’t jump in with logic, mitigation, or strategy.
I listen.
I really listen.
The shark is fully out of the water now. The charm is gone. The friendly mentorship, the lighthouse metaphors, the bullshit about impact and legacy. All of it has fallen away.
This is just hunger.
Cold. Sharp. Entitled.
“You leaked it,” I say.
It isn’t a question.
There’s a pause, fractional, but telling.
“OF COURSE I leaked it!” Rex snaps. “That’s how we WIN! We create a narrative she can’t escape. She’s forced to the table. It’s genius. She has to sign now. Publicly. Or she looks like a fool. We boxed her in.”
You don’t get to make my choices.
The words aren’t mine, but they might as well be carved into my bones now.
