Chapter 3: Story 1

I make a study of Dominic the way other people study stock markets. Obsessively, clinically, with color-coded notes and a growing sense that I’m in over my head.

He drinks black coffee at 3:00 PM exactly. Not 3:01. Not 2:59. Marcus brings it without being asked, sets it on the corner of Dominic’s desk, leaves without a word. Dominic won’t touch it for twelve minutes. He lets it sit, like he’s testing it. Or himself.

He doesn’t have personal photos. Not in his office, not as his phone wallpaper when it lights up on the table. The only hint that he existed before Cole Enterprises is a single framed blueprint on the wall — his first warehouse, dated 23 years ago. No wife. No Ethan. No evidence he’s human.

He works through birthdays. I know because his was last Tuesday. No cake, no email chain. Marcus ordered lunch for the floor, but Dominic ate at his desk, reading Q3 projections like they were a novel he couldn’t put down.

Ethan showed up that day. Uninvited. With a bottle of Macallan and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Happy birthday, Dad.”

Dominic didn’t look up. “It was yesterday.”

“Oh.” Ethan’s smile cracked. “I, uh, got held up. Investor thing.”

“Clearly.”

I watched from my desk, pretending to be deep in Meridian’s user flow charts. Ethan saw me. His eyes went flat.

“Did you know about this?” he asked me, jerking his chin at the lack of balloons.

“Know about what?” I said. “That it’s Wednesday?”

Dominic finally closed his laptop. “Ethan. If you’re not here to work, don’t be here.”

Ethan left the Macallan on the desk. Dominic didn’t touch it. At 6 PM, Marcus took it away.

That night, I added to my notes: Target is immune to performative affection. Approval must be earned, not given. Ethan fails because he performs. Do not perform.

It’s not just strategy anymore. It’s anthropology.

---

Week Two.

I start feeding him insights. Small ones first.

“Meridian’s churn rate spikes on Sundays,” I say during a stand-up, clicking to the slide. “Not because people hate the app. Because they hate Mondays. We’re the reminder.”

Dominic stares at the graph. “Solution?”

“Push notifications off by default on weekends. Then Monday morning: ‘Meridian kept your Sunday quiet. Let’s keep your Monday yours.’ Turn the guilt into a feature.”

He doesn’t say good job. He says, “Do it.”

Two days later, churn drops 4%. He sends me the data with no subject line. Just a screenshot.

I screenshot it back with a single word: Noted.

Sienna calls this “foreplay for workaholics.” I tell her to shut up.

---

Week Three.

Ethan tries to be subtle. He’s terrible at it.

He starts “dropping by” my desk. Always when Dominic’s in meetings.

“Heard you’re on Meridian,” he says, leaning on my partition. “Funny. Dad never lets interns lead.”

“I’m not an intern anymore,” I say, not looking up. “And you’re not leading anything, so I guess we both surprise people.”

His jaw ticks. “You think you’re special because he talks to you? He talks to the cleaning crew too.”

“The cleaning crew doesn’t have to relaunch a $400k campaign,” I say. “But thanks for the comparison. I’ll tell them you said hi.”

He drops a file on my desk. “You lost this.”

I didn’t. I open it. It’s Meridian’s influencer contracts — confidential. With three pages missing. The pages with the KPIs.

I look up. “You took these.”

“Prove it,” he says, smiling.

I could. Security cameras are everywhere. But proving it means starting a war I’m not ready to win. Not yet.

So I do something worse.

I walk into Dominic’s office without knocking. First time.

He’s on a call. He sees me, holds up one finger. I wait. Ethan hovers in the doorway, panicking.

Dominic hangs up. “Ms. Reyes.”

“Ethan found these for me,” I say, setting the file on his desk. “Thought you should see. Pages three through five are missing. The ones with the renegotiation clauses.”

I don’t accuse. I don’t have to.

Dominic opens the file. Looks at the missing pages. Looks at Ethan.

“Ethan,” he says, voice level. “Are you tampering with active campaigns?”

“I — no! She’s lying! She probably—”

“Don’t waste my time, Ethan.”

It’s quiet. Surgical.

Ethan’s face goes white, then red. “You believe her over me?”

“I believe data,” Dominic says. “And data says pages are missing. Data says you were the last person in her desk area, according to keycard logs. Do you have data to contradict that?”

Ethan doesn’t. Because Dominic always has data.

“Get out,” Dominic says. “And if you touch her work again, you’ll do it from outside this building.”

Ethan leaves. He doesn’t slam the door. He’s not brave enough.

Dominic slides the file back to me. “Reprint them. And Ms. Reyes?”

“Yeah?”

“Lock your desk.”

I nod. My hands are cold. Not from fear. From adrenaline. From winning.

Back at my desk, I find a new lock on my drawers. And a note from Marcus. He had these installed yesterday. Said you’d need them.

Yesterday. Before Ethan even took the pages.

He’s three moves ahead. Always.

---

Week Four.

The wins stack up. Meridian’s beta numbers climb. Dominic starts asking my opinion before meetings, not after.

“Chicago pitch,” he says, walking past my desk. “You’re with me.”

Not asking. Telling.

The pitch is at a firm that turned Cole Enterprises down twice. Dominic wants blood. He wants me to be the knife.

I’m ready.

Until Ethan shows up in the lobby.

“ Dad, wait — I should be on this. I know the Brighton account—”

“You know the name,” Dominic says, not stopping. “She knows the numbers.”

He looks at me. “Ms. Reyes. With me.”

I follow. I don’t look at Ethan. I don’t have to. I can feel him shattering.

We win the account. $2.3 million.

On the ride back, Dominic is silent. Then: “Why do you hate him?”

My stomach drops. The car is too quiet. The driver is a ghost behind the partition.

“I don’t—”

“Don’t lie,” he says. Not mean. Just tired. “You’re too smart to lie badly, and too proud to lie well. So don’t.”

I look out the window. Manhattan blurs. “He humiliated me.”

“People humiliate each other every day.”

“He did it on camera. To a room of people. And he called me temporary.”

Dominic is quiet for a long time. “And you came here to prove you’re permanent.”

It’s not a question.

“Is it working?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He doesn’t answer. But when we get back, there’s a new nameplate on my desk. Not Intern. Not Contractor.

A. Reyes – Strategic Marketing Lead, Meridian

Lead.

Ethan sees it an hour later. He doesn’t say anything. He just walks away.

That night, I delete ProjectDRevengeDraft1_ from my laptop.

I don’t need it anymore.

Or so I tell myself.

---

Friday. 6:03 PM.

Most of the floor is gone. I’m finishing a deck when Dominic appears at my desk. No coat. Sleeves rolled up. He looks like he’s been in fights all day and won all of them.

“Walk,” he says.

We end up on the rooftop. The same rooftop where Ethan destroyed me four weeks ago. I didn’t know this building had access. I didn’t know Dominic had a key.

The city is orange and purple. The wind is cold. He doesn’t speak for a while.

“You’re angry,” he says finally.

“Always.”

“Good,” he says. “Angry people get things done. Complacent people don’t.”

He’s standing too close. Not inappropriate. But close enough that I can see the gray in his stubble, the faint scar on his eyebrow. Close enough that I realize he’s not ice. He’s just… contained.

“Why marketing?” he asks again. Like he did on day one. Like the answer matters.

I could give him the resume version. I like consumer psychology. I’m data-driven.

I don’t.

“My dad left when I was twelve,” I say. The wind takes the words, but he hears them. “He was a marketer. A bad one. He could sell anything to anyone except his own family on staying. I got good at reading people because I had to. Figured if I couldn’t make him stay, I could at least make sure no one ever lied to me again.”

I don’t know why I tell him. Maybe because he’s not looking at me like I’m broken. He’s looking at me like I’m a problem he hasn’t solved yet.

He nods once. “My father was a truck driver. Died owing people money. I started Cole because I was tired of watching good men lose to men who talked louder.”

It’s the most personal thing he’s ever said to me.

“Ethan talks loud,” I say.

“Yes,” Dominic agrees. “He does.”

We stand there until the sun is gone.

“Don’t stay late on Fridays,” he says eventually. “It’s a bad habit.”

“Says the man who lives here.”

The corner of his mouth moves. Not a smile. But close.

“Go home, Ms. Reyes.”

I go.

---

Saturday. 2:17 AM.

I can’t sleep.

I open my laptop. I look at my notes on Dominic. Immune to performative affection. Approval must be earned.

I add a new line: Sees everything. Says nothing. Dangerous.

Then I delete the whole document.

Because I’m not studying him anymore.

I’m learning him.

And that’s not part of the plan.

Sienna texts me: You okay?

I stare at the phone.

I type: No.

Then I delete it.

I type: I think I just met a man who’s not Ethan.

I delete that too.

Finally, I send: Meridian’s gonna crush. Sleep well.

I don’t.

Because for the first time since the rooftop, I’m not thinking about revenge when I close my eyes.

I’m thinking about gray eyes and cedar coats and the way he said Don’t lie.

And that terrifies me more than Ethan ever did.