Of course, he didn’t knock to greet - he knocked to challenge.
“Early as ever, Eliza,” he said. “Rest of the team’s still filing in with coffee in hand. Mind if I steal the fishbowl for a bit?”
“It’s all yours,” I said, not looking up from my screen. “I’m only defending my territory until the real predators show.”
He smiled, an upward twitch at the corners of his lips, not a show of teeth; his smile reminded me more of a concealed weapon than a show of amusement or joy. “I’ll try not to drip blood on the carpet.”
He stepped in, closed the glass door, and took a call. His voice dropped to that low, surgical register he reserved for high-stakes negotiations or firing people. I tuned him out with noise-canceling earbuds but still felt the pulse of his cadence. Every sentence was a surgical incision.
I tried to ignore him, but I was attuned to every movement. The way he tugged his sleeve to the perfect length with his other hand when he was getting ready to eviscerate someone. The split-second thumb-tap on his phone before he said anything that mattered. The way he sat at the edge of his seat, as if the chair was an accomplice instead of support.
I watched around my six-monitor set up that I plugged my laptop directly into as he sliced through his call and then hung up. My code review now felt trivial. He was on the move. I braced.
He didn’t disappoint. The door hissed open and he strode to my desk, hands in pockets, wearing that gentle predatory calm.
“Got a second?”
I turned, but not all the way. “Technically, I bill by the millisecond.”
He looked over my setup, the six-screen command center. “You always run a process monitor at root level?”
“I prefer not to be owned,” I said, glancing at my shell window. “Unlike some people.”
His eyebrow twitched. “Is this about that time in college-”
“I got over it,” I lied.
He accepted this with a slight nod, then dropped the bomb. “There’s a leadership huddle at 8. They’re rolling out a major change. I want you on my side.”
I snorted. “You always want me on your side, Gabriel.”
“Because you’re smarter than most of the people here. Possibly smarter than me.”
It should have been a compliment. It felt like a shot across the bow.
“Why do I feel like you’re about to pitch something I’ll hate?” I closed my laptop. “Fine. You’ve got my attention.”
“Perfect. Let’s walk.”
He didn’t wait for my response, just led the way down the corridor. Our shoes echoed different rhythms; mine sharp and quick, his longer and measured. We passed the closed offices, the cubicles, the break room, without a glance.
In the elevator, he stood too close. I could smell the hint of expensive soap and that cologne that annoyed me. He watched the floor numbers tick down, then, almost absent-mindedly, leaned in.
“They’re merging our teams for the next project,” he said. “You and I will be sharing a workspace. Effective immediately.”
My stomach did a full autopsy. “That’s… strategically inefficient. Our teams have different codebases, different workflows-”
“Not anymore. C-suite wants ‘synergy.’” He pronounced it like an allergy.
I crossed my arms. “Let me guess. You’ll be ‘leading’ this little experiment?”
He gave a full smile now, the one that melted venture capitalists and HR liaisons alike. “We’re co-leads. You get half the headache.”
“And twice the blame when it all implodes.”
He reached to tap the door open, but stopped, blocking my exit with his body in a way that made my pulse jump. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said, voice low. “You don’t sabotage me, I don’t sabotage you. We run this like equals. Even if it kills us.”
I looked up, meeting his eyes. Dark, impossible to read, but the challenge was unmistakable. “What’s the catch?”