Anna Valeria arrived early again.
Not by accident, and not to make a point. She didn't care whether Ben noticed. She came early because she wanted the room before it turned into a battlefield.
Before charm started bleeding through the walls.
Before the tone changed the temperature.
She wanted silence—clean, neutral, unclaimed.
The war room was cold. Not metaphorically—actually cold. The AC was set just high enough to make staying still uncomfortable, but not high enough to complain about.
Anna liked it.
It kept her alert.
She set down her coffee and opened her laptop. No dramatic flourish. No show of confidence. Just routine.
That was the thing about power. You didn't announce it.
You operated as if it had always been yours.
Outside the glass wall, the bullpen buzzed in low voices and early-clicking keyboards. The scent of burnt espresso drifted from the tiny machine by the design cluster. Someone laughed—too loudly—and was immediately shushed.
It was still early enough to see the city blush behind the blinds.
Anna ignored it.
She ran her presentation again.
Twice.
Not because it wasn't perfect.
Because it wasn't hers yet. Not until it lived in her bones.
__
Ben walked in at 8:57 a.m.
She didn't need to look up. She felt it.
That low hum that always followed him. It wasn't ego—not exactly. It was ease. The way some men entered a room like it had been waiting for them to start breathing.
"Morning," he said.
She typed another line before responding.
Then she looked up. "Morning."
He wore navy today. Crisp. Understated. His shirt collar open again, not sloppily—calculated. His stubble was closer than yesterday. Hair styled like he'd just rolled out of bed, which meant it had taken at least twelve minutes and product.
She hated that she knew that.
He took the seat next to hers. Not across, not at the head. Just close enough to break the illusion of space.
"Did you rewrite slide eleven?" he asked, not looking at her.
"Yes."
"I liked the old version."
"You liked the numbers. But they didn't breathe."
He smiled faintly. "I don't need them to breathe. I need them to convert."
"They can do both."
"Then impress me."
Anna turned to him, fully now.
"Impress you?" Her voice was soft, but sharp. "You think I'm pitching to you?"
Ben blinked once. Slow. Not offended—interested.
"Let's not pretend," he said. "Everything in this room is a pitch."
The first team meeting was at 9:15.
By then, the tension between them had settled like fog—low, visible, present.
The strategist, Dani, walked in first. She wore confidence like it was fresh out of a box—new, bright, still unfolding.
Then came Jules from social, a blur of buttons and coffee and unbrushed hair. He dropped his notes and laughed too loudly. Again.
Two designers. One motion graphics intern. A floating project manager named Courtney who smiled at everyone like she had secrets.
They all greeted Anna with a mix of curiosity and calibrated distance.
Ben, they greeted like gravity.
Anna watched it happen.
She didn't blame them.
Ben was magnetic. Everyone felt it.
That's what made him dangerous.
They started with brand voice refinements.
Anna took the lead.
She presented the revised persona set with steady rhythm. No fireworks. Just clear logic, supported by emotional intelligence and cultural cues.
Ben nodded throughout.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't challenge.
Didn't even twitch.
Until the very end.
"That was great," he said. "It's nice to see the campaign finally growing some skin."
There it was.
The knife.
Hidden in a compliment.
Delivered like praise, but edged with implication.
Anna smiled. Sweet. Professional.
"Thank you," she said. "It's easier to grow skin when you're not constantly being peeled."
Silence.
Jules looked down.
Dani blinked.
Ben's mouth curled just a little, but he said nothing else.
The meeting moved on.
__
By noon, the quiet war had become routine.
Ben made "adjustments." Anna "refined" them. He "elevated phrasing." She "returned voice to the audience."
On the surface, it looked like collaboration.
Inside?
It was fencing.
Strategic, elegant, exhausting.
Every compliment from him carried a weight Anna had to parry or twist.
And he never slipped.
That was the worst part.
Even when she scored, he didn't bleed.
During the lunch break, Anna went to the balcony behind the design floor.
It wasn't technically for employees.
But she needed air.
The city was loud today—traffic stacking in the streets below, the hum of ambition rising in fumes and horns.
She took a slow breath.
Closed her eyes.
There had been a moment—years ago—where she thought Ben understood her.
Really understood her.
Not romantically. Not flirtatiously.
Just… creatively.
Like he saw her mind before he saw anything else.
She was wrong.
He saw her potential.
Then he mined it for parts.
When she returned inside, the hallway was quiet—too quiet. The bullpen noise was muffled now, distant through layers of tempered glass and half-drawn acoustic panels.
And then—
Click. Click.
Heels on tile.
Anna didn't have to turn around.
Sydney.
She walked up slowly, sipping from a pale lavender water bottle and pretending the silence between them wasn't its own kind of violence.
"Balcony girl era?" Sydney asked, gesturing over her shoulder. "That's new."
Anna didn't reply.
"I heard you killed the call," she continued. "Nice work."
There it was.
The smile. The tone.
Nice. Work.
Like Anna had just been a good intern.
"Thanks," Anna said. "I figured I should remind them what original thought sounds like."
Sydney raised her brows but didn't bite. "You're not wrong. Ben's been playing it safe lately."
Anna turned to her then. "And you've been playing what? Queenmaker?"
Sydney leaned in, just slightly.
"I don't need to make anyone queen," she said. "I just make sure they remember who owns the mirror."
For a moment, Anna said nothing.
Then—
"Be careful with that line," she murmured. "Stand too close to the glass and you'll mistake your own reflection for someone else's crown."
Sydney's smile didn't fade.
But she walked away first.
__
The day ended not with resolution, but with silence.
They packed up together. No one spoke.
The war room was dim now, sun bleeding soft gold against the steel-and-glass frame. It made the place look gentler than it was.
Anna shut her laptop. Ben was still tapping at his keyboard—slow, methodical, not rushed.
He looked up as she slipped her blazer on.
"You handled today well."
"Is that a compliment?" she asked, not looking at him.
"A recognition."
She met his eyes.
"Save recognition for monuments. I'm not done moving yet."
Ben watched her, something unreadable flickering across his expression.
Not admiration.
Not anger.
Maybe memory.
She left him in the room.
But not behind.
Later, in her apartment, she didn't turn on the lights.
She walked past the kitchen, dropped her bag on the table, and went straight to her notebook.
She opened it. Turned to a clean page. And wrote:
Survival looks like silence.
Strategy sounds like compliance.
But I've learned to write out loud.
Day Two.
He's still watching.
I hope he keeps watching.
I'm not done showing him what I became while he blinked.