Off Limits: Playing With Fire (Short Stories Collection)

I used to think humiliation had a sound. Like glass breaking, or a car crash. Something loud and violent you could point to.

I was wrong.

Humiliation sounds like polite laughter. The kind that ripples through a rooftop party at 11:47 PM, when three hundred of Manhattan’s most connected people decide you’re the punchline.

“Come on, Alina. Don’t act shocked.”

Ethan’s voice carries because of course it does. He’s holding a mic. He’s always holding a mic. The DJ cut the music for his “birthday toast” ten minutes ago and I should have left then. Sienna told me to. But I stayed, because a pathetic part of me thought he was going to apologize for the fight last week. For the tabloid photo of him and that influencer in Miami. For all of it.

Instead, he grins at me from the little stage they set up by the infinity pool. He’s in Tom Ford, his hair is perfect, and his father’s watch — the Patek Philippe Dominic wore when he closed his first billion — glints on his wrist. Ethan only wears it when he wants to feel important.

“We all make mistakes when we drink,” he says, and the crowd titters. Phones are already up. Recording. Always recording. “Mine was thinking something temporary could be permanent. Right, Alina?”

Temporary.

Six months of my life. Six months of keeping his schedule, ghostwriting his LinkedIn posts about “entrepreneurial grit” that his dad’s company actually built, pretending I didn’t see the way he looked at other women when he thought I was busy.

Six months, and he reduces it to a drunk text.

My heels sink into the astroturf they laid over the concrete. I can feel every camera lens. My dress is red. I picked it because he said red was “his color on me.” Like I was a car.

Someone near the bar says, “Yikes,” loud enough for their TikTok.

I should walk away. I should be dignified. That’s what my mom would do — chin up, exit stage left, cry in the Uber. But my mom also married a man who left when I was twelve and took the savings with him, so maybe her playbook isn’t gospel.

Ethan isn’t done. He never is when he has an audience.

“Look, no hard feelings. You’re smart, Alina. You’ll land on your feet. Just… not in my family.”

That’s the line that does it. My family. Like he built the Cole name instead of inheriting it. Like Dominic Cole would ever claim him if Ethan wasn’t blood.

The crowd laughs again. Kinder this time, because they feel bad for me. Pity is worse than mockery. At least mockery means they think you were a threat.

I find Sienna by the bar. She’s already got my clutch in one hand and her phone in the other, typing something vicious. Her eyes are all murder.

“Say the word and I dump this entire champagne tower on his head,” she mutters.

“Tempting,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake. I’m proud of that. “But it’s vintage. Waste of a crime.”

We leave through the service elevator. I make it all the way to the parking garage before my knees give out. I slide down the concrete wall and sit in my $600 dress, staring at my phone.

It’s already online.

@DeuxMoi: Spotted: Ethan Cole dumps girlfriend Alina R. on mic at his own bday party. “Temporary” – his words not ours 🥴 #ColeEnterprise #Messy

3.2k likes in eight minutes.

Sienna crouches next to me. “Hey. You with me?”

I nod, because if I open my mouth I’ll either scream or throw up.

“He’s a sociopath in a Rolex,” she says. “You know that, right? This isn’t about you.”

It feels about me. It feels like every time I was the smartest person in the room and men like Ethan still picked the pretty, quiet girl who didn’t correct them. It feels like being twelve again, watching my dad choose a new family with better credit.

I don’t cry. I haven’t cried since I was sixteen and decided tears were a luxury I couldn’t afford. Instead, I do what I always do: I get analytical.

Ethan doesn’t operate without an audience. He doesn’t cheat without wanting to be caught, because being caught means people talk about him. He doesn’t dump me publicly unless he thinks it makes him look strong.

Who does he want to look strong for?

I know the answer before I finish the question.

Dominic Cole.

Ethan worships his father the way cult members worship a leader who never learns their name. I’ve seen it. I’ve sat through dinners where Ethan recites Cole Enterprises’ quarterly reports like Bible verses, desperate for one nod. Dominic gives him nothing. Dominic gives everyone nothing, from what I’ve read.

And that’s when the idea hits me.

It’s not a good idea. It’s not a sane idea. It’s the kind of idea you get at 12:09 AM in a parking garage, with mascara you can’t afford flaking onto a dress you also can’t afford, while the internet dissects your worst moment.

If Ethan’s whole identity is “Dominic’s son,” what happens if Dominic respects someone else more?

What happens if that someone is me?

“Sienna,” I say, standing up. My legs are steady. Rage is a great stabilizer. “How hard is it to get an internship at Cole Enterprises?”

She blinks. “Alina. No.”

“I’m serious.”

“Alina, yes. It’s impossible. They don’t even post them. It’s all Ivy League, legacy, ‘my dad golfs with Dominic’ stuff.”

“Perfect,” I say. “Then he won’t see me coming.”

We go back to my apartment. I don’t sleep. I drink three coffees and open my laptop.

Dominic Cole, 45. CEO. Self-made. Started Cole Enterprises at 22 with a logistics hack and a chip on his shoulder. Never does press. Never remarried after his wife died ten years ago. Has one son, Ethan, 23, who his PR team keeps off the earnings calls.

Ethan’s weakness is obvious: approval.

Dominic’s weakness? He doesn’t have one. Not public.

So I look for patterns. Every article mentions the same thing: Dominic promotes competence. Fires incompetence. Doesn’t care about pedigree if you make him money. He personally oversees one department: Strategic Marketing. His “pet project,” one Forbes piece called it.

Marketing.

I have a degree in marketing. Graduated top 5%. I’ve been running social campaigns for startups since sophomore year because financial aid didn’t cover textbooks. I know how to read data. I know how to read people.

And I know how to be what someone needs, until I don’t want to anymore.

By 4 AM I have a plan. It’s ugly and simple:

Get inside Cole Enterprises.

Get close to Dominic.

Become invaluable.

Make Ethan watch his father choose me — the “temporary mistake” — over him.

Step four is fuzzy. Will I ruin a deal? Leak something? Seducing Dominic flashes through my mind and I shut it down immediately. No. That’s Ethan’s move, using people. I’m better than that. I just need Dominic to see me. The rest will collapse on its own.

Sienna finds me at sunrise, surrounded by printouts and energy drink cans.

“This is unhinged,” she says, but she’s reading over my shoulder.

“This is strategy,” I correct.

“This is you getting hurt again, but with more steps.”

I tape a photo of Dominic to my wall. It’s from a shareholders meeting. He’s not smiling. He looks like a man who counts exits in every room. Good. I can work with that.

“Why him?” Sienna asks. “Why not just ruin Ethan directly? Key his car. Leak the Miami photos.”

“Because Ethan doesn’t care about cars,” I say. “He cares about being Dominic. If Dominic doesn’t respect him, Ethan’s nothing. And I want him to feel nothing.”

She’s quiet for a long time. Then: “If you do this, you don’t get to be surprised when it gets dark. Revenge isn’t a LinkedIn skill, Alina.”

“I know.”

“You don’t. But okay.” She drops a thumb drive on my keyboard. “If you’re gonna be insane, be smart. My cousin’s in HR at Cole. She owes me. There’s one internship opening. No name on it yet. Dominic interviews the final three himself.”

I stare at her. “Why do you have this?”

“Because you’re my best friend and I figured you’d try something stupid. I wanted it to be smart stupid.”

I hug her so hard she wheezes.

The application is due in six hours. I rewrite my entire resume. I delete every photo of Ethan from my socials. I craft a cover letter that doesn’t mention him at all. I make myself look like what Dominic would want: sharp, data-driven, no personal life.

At 9:01 AM, I hit submit.

Then I wait.

And wait.

Three days later, the email comes:

Ms. Reyes — Please report to Cole Enterprises, 47th Floor, Monday 8:00 AM. You’ve been selected for a final interview with Mr. Cole. – M. Hale, Executive Assistant

I read it five times.

Sienna reads it once and says, “Oh god. You’re really doing this.”

I look at Dominic’s photo on my wall. No smile. No warmth. Just a man who built an empire because he didn’t trust anyone else to do it right.

“Yeah,” I say. “I am.”

I don’t sleep Sunday night. I pick a suit — navy, tailored, nothing Ethan ever saw me in. I practice answers to questions he might ask. I research Cole Enterprises’ last failed campaign so I have a fix ready.

At 7:43 AM Monday, I stand in front of the Cole Enterprises building. Glass and steel and sixty stories of power. It costs more than my student loans.

My phone buzzes. A G****e alert I set for “Ethan Cole.”

He’s posted a photo. At the office. On the 47th floor. Caption: Back where I belong. Big week ahead. #Legacy

He’s trying to remind his dad he exists.

I smile for the first time since the rooftop.

“Not for long,” I whisper, and walk inside.

The lobby smells like money and cold brew. The receptionist checks my ID and doesn’t smile. The elevator needs a keycard I don’t have, so a security guard rides up with me. He looks bored.

47th floor. The doors open.

And there he is.

Dominic Cole.

He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at a tablet, leaning against a floor-to-ceiling window like he owns the skyline. Which, technically, he does. He’s taller than I expected. Gray at the temples. Suit without a tie, sleeves rolled up like he works. Ethan wears suits to be seen. Dominic wears them because he’s already seen everything.

He doesn’t look cold. He looks tired.

“Mr. Cole,” his assistant says. “Alina Reyes. For the 8 AM.”

He finally glances up.

His eyes are the same color as the storm clouds outside. Gray, sharp, assessing. They flick over me once. Not my body — my posture. My hands. My face. Like he’s reading a balance sheet.

I extend my hand before he can dismiss me. “Mr. Cole. Thanks for the opportunity.”

His handshake is firm. Dry. No rings except the Patek Ethan keeps borrowing.

“Walk with me, Ms. Reyes,” he says. His voice is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes rooms shut up. “Tell me why I should hire you instead of the Harvard MBA who interviewed at 7.”

No small talk. No “how are you.” Just a test.

Good. I don’t want his kindness. I want his respect.

I fall into step beside him. “Because the Harvard MBA will tell you what HBR said last month. I’ll tell you why your Q2 campaign in Austin failed and how to fix it before Q4.”

That makes him stop walking. He turns, really looks at me now.

“Go on.”

And just like that, round one starts.

I don’t know it yet, but I’ve already lost. Because the problem with playing games with men like Dominic Cole is that they invented the rules. And the problem with revenge is that it requires you to carry the person who hurt you with you, every single day, until you become them.

But I don’t know that at 8:02 AM on a Monday.

All I know is that Ethan’s father is listening to me. And for the first time since the rooftop, I don’t feel temporary.

I feel dangerous.