Anna didn't dream.
Or if she did, she didn't remember it.
She opened her eyes at 6:14 a.m., two minutes before her alarm would have gone off. Her body knew before her brain did: today was not a day to oversleep.
She stayed still for a moment, her face turned toward the window. Gray morning light bled through the blinds in slats—clean, cold, indifferent. Like VAST.
She exhaled once, deep and slow, then moved.
Shower. Black towel. Steamed mirror.
She stared at herself for three full seconds in the foggy reflection before reaching for her cream. Her face looked calmer than it felt.
She didn't feel brave. She felt... contained. Like the water in a high-pressure pipe—smooth on the outside, but waiting to explode if someone turned the wrong valve.
She didn't eat breakfast. Her stomach wasn't ready for negotiation.
By 8:05, she was walking through the front doors of VAST.
It hits different today. Louder.
The lobby was busier, but it still sounded muted, like everything had been dipped in thick, corporate silence. The kind of place where ambition had volume, but only when spoken in controlled tones.
The receptionist, a woman she didn't know, smiled politely.
Anna nodded, said nothing.
The elevator arrived on time. The chrome doors reflected her back at her—not distorted, but crisp. She took that as a sign.
She pressed 12.
__
The war room was already booked when she arrived.
Of course.
It had always been Ben's habit to claim space early. Not for control. For ownership.
She stood at the glass wall outside for a beat, watching him through the transparency.
He was inside already, jacket off, sleeves rolled, his shirt a pale blue that made him look softer than he was. Laptop open. Coffee in his left hand. Stylus in the right. Brows slightly furrowed, like something on the screen was just enough of a problem to make him look engaged but not overwhelmed.
That look had landed him millions in business.
It was the curated chaos of a man who wanted to seem too busy to fight, but too competent to lose.
Anna opened the door without knocking.
He looked up.
"Morning," he said, like she hadn't spent all night thinking about how to dismantle him without bleeding in public.
"Morning," she replied.
They locked eyes for a second too long.
He gestured toward the far side of the table. "Your seat's still yours."
"Funny," she said, crossing the room. "I never remember giving it up."
They worked in silence for the first ten minutes.
Anna opened her laptop, synced her drive, adjusted the lighting on the overhead track. Everything felt too bright. Too white. This room was designed to look like power and sound like collaboration.
She hated it.
She preferred rooms with windows. Rooms that didn't pretend to be something they weren't.
Ben leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head.
"I revised slide seven," he said casually.
"I saw," she said, eyes on her screen. "You cut the emotional resonance in half."
"It wasn't about emotion. It was about keeping the arc tight."
"It was about watering down the point."
"It was about keeping it pitchable in under five minutes."
She turned to him slowly.
"And why exactly are we racing through the part the client hired me for?"
He smiled.
There it was.
That weaponized patience he was so good at. Like she was being emotional again. Like she was overreacting to a simple change.
Like he hadn't done this before.
A knock interrupted them.
Jules from social stepped in, awkward as ever.
"Hey, uh—client preview call in twenty. They want to run through the persona again. Something about the demo split?"
Ben stood. "Thanks. We'll be ready."
Jules lingered for a beat too long. Then left.
Anna stood as well.
"Tell me something," she said, crossing to the large screen in the corner.
Ben followed her, eyes scanning the screen she pulled up.
"Why are you doing this campaign?"
He blinked. "Because the agency asked me to."
"No. Why you?"
Ben tilted his head, not defensive, just curious. "Is there a right answer?"
"There's a real one."
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then turned back to the screen.
"Because you're in it," he said quietly. "And I wanted to see if I could win this time."
She froze.
He didn't look at her when he said it.
Just sipped his coffee like it hadn't been the most honest thing he'd ever said in her direction.
She didn't reply.
Not because she didn't have words.
But because her hands had started trembling.
And that pissed her off more than anything else.
So she clenched them. Ground her heel into the carpet. Pulled the next file from her folder.
"Then you'd better keep up."
__
At 2:58 p.m., they were dialed in for the client call.
Royal Lux's lead marketing exec was an older woman with a terrifyingly calm tone. She asked questions like she already knew the answers, and gave approval like it cost her actual oxygen.
Anna led the pitch.
Ben didn't interrupt.
Not once.
That, more than anything, threw her off.
But she held steady.
She hit the beats. Tied the campaign back to the user memory map. Wove in the buyer's personal arc with language so smooth it could've been silk or poison.
At the end of the call, the client said one thing.
"Let her lead the deck. She understands the audience. Let him back her up. You've got something here—don't ruin it."
Then the call ended.
The silence that followed was more satisfying than any applause.
They both sat there, unmoving.
Ben tapped his fingers on the tabletop. Once. Twice.
Then turned to her.
"You were good."
"I know."
"You're angry."
"I'm focused."
"You always did get sharper when you were pissed at me."
She stood.
Her hands weren't shaking now.
She was done being angry.
Now she was planning.
"Tomorrow," she said, gathering her things, "you'll do slide seven my way."
He smiled faintly. "And if I don't?"
She looked him in the eye.
"I'll do it without you."
Then she walked out, coat draped over her arm, the scent of her perfume lingering like a threat.
Back at her desk, she opened her notebook and wrote one line at the top of a fresh page: Stop playing small to be palatable.
Then underlined it twice.
Then circled his name.
And drew a line straight through it.