The wanting didn’t get quieter. It sharpened, steadied, wore grooves in the soft parts of me. I let it, for once.
Fine. I wanted him.Fine. I wasn’t twelve anymore, hiding the romance novels under a calculus textbook. I was a grown woman, and if I wanted to imagine what his mouth would feel like against my neck, I’d do it, and then I’d get the fuck back to work.
Except work was the problem. The sabotage, the word still sounded melodramatic, but what else do you call it when someone keeps swapping your decks, sending cryptic edits,arranging calls that you’re never invited to? The pattern was so textbook it should’ve insulted me. But Gabriel never did anything textbook. He rewrote the book and made you thank him for the privilege.
If he was coming for me, it was because he thought I could handle it. Or because he wanted to see if I could outplay him.
Or maybe, worst case, he had nothing to do with it, and I was about to walk face-first into a hostile takeover, blindfolded and handcuffed by my own ego.
The fear braided itself into the want. Wanting him made me susceptible. It made every text from him, every interaction a grenade with the pin halfway pulled.
What did that make me? Vulnerable. Controllable. Predictable.
Fuck that.
I considered, for the first time, just telling him. Calling his bluff. Gabriel, is this your idea of foreplay?
I pictured his response: A five-second pause, because he’d never let me see a reaction. Then, the half-smile, the “you’re smarter than this, Eliza,” as he closed the distance, physically or digitally, didn’t matter. He’d offer protection. Or a solution. Or, god forbid, sympathy.
And that was exactly why I couldn’t. I’d let him in, and then I’d never know if my victories were real or gifted. I’d never know if I was his equal or his pet project.
So, I didn’t. I stared the urge down. I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, forced my hands to steady. In the reflection off the microwave, I looked a little wild-eyed, my hair’s razor-straight line shot through with a single rogue strand. The effect was unprofessional. I let it stay.
I re-ran the events of the last forty-eight hours, but this time like an outsider. If I was watching myself, what would I do? I’d take inventory. I’d verify audit logs, check for phishing, trace every login. I’d go to the office at 5 a.m. and camp outside the server room if I had to. I’d build my own failsafe’s. I’d give the saboteur enough rope to hang themselves, and then I’d pull the lever.
Fine. Good. This was a plan. My heart rate dropped, the dread subsumed by a precise, algorithmic anger.
But before I could let go, I had to test myself. One last time, I picked up the phone. I hovered over his name, the only one in my favorites list not labeled with an emoji or a nickname. Just Gabriel. Full stop. The empty message box taunted me. I didn’t type.
I thought about what I’d write, if I did: “You win.” Or maybe, “I miss the way you looked at me the night you kissed me.” Or, “Do you want me as your adversary, or your accomplice?”
I set the phone down. I didn’t text him. I sat with the wanting, and it didn’t kill me.
Maybe it even made me stronger.
It was about 2 o’clock in the morning. I closed the laptop, hard. I pulled my hair free from its elastic, letting it fall, messy and uncontained, over my shoulders. I turned out the light, savoring the cool dark. I would find my saboteur. I would find out if Gabriel was the enemy or the only other person who could see the whole board. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break first.
Soon, I’d have to get on a plane with him. Close quarters, manufactured chemistry, forced proximity. I was going to hate every minute of it.
And that’s how I knew I’d survive it.
If I was going to be brought down, it wouldn’t be for trusting the wrong man.
It would be because I underestimated myself. And that? That had never happened, and I’d be damned if it started now.
Chapter Fourteen
Gabriel
The space between us might as well have been a live wire. Every time she shifted, the hem of her skirt rode an inch higher. Every time she clicked across the linoleum in those four-inch stilettos, the sound ran a current straight through me.
Eliza was fully aware, which is what made it torture.
She stood at her desk, arms braced on the wood, eyes roving over two monitors and a stack of printouts. Her hair, loose again tonight, like a dare, slipped forward to shadow her face, but not enough to hide the small crease above her left eyebrow. The one that deepened whenever she was about to level an argument so devastating it would linger in the air for days.
No one outmaneuvered Eliza Reeves. Not in a boardroom, not in a goddamn legal staring contest, and not in the grim sport we’d made of these after-hours encounters.
She tapped a key, then, without looking up: “You’re lurking.”