IMMERSION

The numbers make sense in a way nothing else does.

I've been in the library for eight hours straight. Papers cover every surface. My notebook is filled with calculations, arrows connecting one idea to another. Coffee rings stain the margins where I've set my mug down without thinking.

The Pacific division keeps bleeding money, and for seven hours I couldn't figure out why. Revenue is steady. Labor costs are normal. But something's draining capital like a wound that won't close.

Then I see it in the shipping manifests.

They're routing everything through Singapore. Every single container from their Taiwan factory goes to Singapore first, then to Los Angeles. It adds three days and forty thousand dollars per shipment. But there's a direct route. Taiwan to LA, straight shot across the Pacific. Half the cost, half the time.

I grab my pen and start calculating. Twelve shipments per month. Forty thousand per shipment. That's almost six million dollars a year in unnecessary costs. Just on shipping.

My hand cramps. I don't care.

"Mrs. Laurent?" Mrs. Chen's voice pulls me back to reality. She's holding a sandwich on a plate, looking at me with concern. "You missed lunch. It's nearly seven."

Seven? I check my phone. She's right.

"Thank you." I take the sandwich but don't eat it. Can't. Not yet. I need to verify these numbers first.

She leaves quietly, and I dive back in.

The door opens again twenty minutes later. I don't look up. "I'm fine, Mrs. Chen. Really."

"I'm not Mrs. Chen."

My head snaps up. Dominic stands in the doorway, his tie loosened, jacket gone. He looks tired. Good. I hope his day was as brutal as mine.

Then his eyes scan the library. Papers everywhere. My laptop balanced on a stack of books. Three empty coffee cups. The untouched sandwich.

"Have you been here all day?" he asks.

"Numbers don't solve themselves."

He moves into the room, picking up one of my notebooks. His eyes flick across my handwriting, the calculations, the diagrams. "What am I looking at?"

"Your Pacific division is hemorrhaging money because someone decided routing through Singapore was a good idea." I close my laptop and stand. My legs protest. I've been curled in this chair too long. "It's not. There's a direct route that would save you five point eight million annually."

His eyebrow lifts. "You found that in one day?"

"I found that in seven hours. I spent the other hour finding twelve more inefficiencies just like it." I gather my papers, organizing them into something resembling order. "Do you want to see them or are you going to keep questioning whether I can do basic math?"

Something flickers in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or interest.

"Show me," he says. "In my study."

His study smells like leather and cedar. Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a desk that's probably older than I am. This is his space. His domain. And he's letting me in.

I connect my laptop to his monitor, pulling up the spreadsheets I've been building. The numbers fill the screen in neat columns, color-coded by urgency.

Dominic leans against his desk, arms crossed. Watching.

I walk him through it. The shipping routes first, then the redundant R&D spending between tech and manufacturing. The real estate refinancing opportunity. The division that should be sold off entirely because it's never turned a profit and never will.

"Here." I reach for the keyboard to pull up another file. My hand brushes his where it rests on the desk.

Electricity shoots up my arm.

We both freeze. His eyes meet mine, and for a second the air between us goes thick. Then I pull back, focusing on the screen like my life depends on it.

"The manufacturing costs," I continue, my voice not quite steady. "They're up forty percent, but output is down. You're paying for materials you don't need because someone's ordering based on last year's projections instead of current demand."

"Who authorized that?" His voice is rough.

"Your VP of operations. Marcus Chen."

"Mrs. Chen's husband." He runs a hand through his hair. "Of course."

I pull up the next slide. "If you adjust the ordering schedule to match actual production, you'll cut costs by eighteen percent. That's three point two million in the first year alone."

He moves closer, studying the numbers. I can feel the heat of him behind me, smell cedar and coffee. My pulse kicks up, but I force myself to stay focused.

"What about the tech division?" he asks.

"That's trickier." I open a different file. "The product is good. Revolutionary, actually, if you can get it to market. But you're two years behind schedule because you keep chasing perfection. You need to launch now with what you have and iterate later. Every month you wait costs you market share you'll never get back."

"The board won't approve an incomplete product."

"Then convince them." I turn to face him, and realize too late how close we are. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Show them the revenue projections if you launch in Q2 versus Q4. The difference is staggering."

He holds my gaze, and I see the exact moment skepticism shifts to something else. Interest. Maybe respect.

"You actually know what you're talking about."

"I told you I could help."

"You did." He steps back, giving me space to breathe again. "Walk me through the board presentation. What's your recommendation?"

We work for another hour. He asks sharp questions, poking holes in my logic. I answer them, adjusting my projections when he's right, defending them when he's wrong.

At one point, he makes an assumption about the tax implications. I correct him, pulling up the actual code to prove my point.

His laugh is surprised. "You're right. I forgot about that amendment."

"Economics major," I remind him. "Tax law was required."

"Apparently it was useful." He closes the laptop and looks at me. Really looks at me, like he's seeing someone different than the woman who walked down the aisle two days ago. "The board meeting is in two days, not three."

My stomach drops. "What?"

"I needed to see if you could work under pressure." He shrugs, unapologetic. "Looks like you can."

Heat floods my face, but it's not embarrassment. It's anger. "You lied?"

"I tested you."

"You manipulated me." I grab my laptop, shoving it into its case with more force than necessary. "You stood in that kitchen and gave me three days, knowing the whole time I only had two."

"Would you have performed differently if I'd told you the truth?"

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point, Iris?" He moves between me and the door. Not blocking me, but close enough that I'd have to go around him to leave. "You wanted to prove yourself. I gave you the opportunity. You succeeded. Why are you angry?"

"Because you treated me like a lab rat in an experiment." I step closer, jabbing my finger into his chest. "Because you didn't trust me enough to just tell me the truth. Because you're an asshole."

Silence fills the study. I've never called anyone an asshole before. Never raised my voice to someone who holds this much power over my future.

But I'm done being invisible.

Dominic's mouth curves into something that's almost a smile. "Yes. But I'm an asshole who's impressed."

The anger drains out of me, replaced by confusion. "What?"

"You're good at this. Better than good." He picks up my notebook, flipping through the pages of calculations. "I expected Felicity. Someone decorative who'd smile at the board and let the men do the thinking. Instead, I got you."

"Lucky you," I mutter.

"Maybe." He sets down the notebook. "Have dinner with me."

I blink. "Why?"

"Because we need to discuss how this marriage will actually work." He checks his watch. "The board meeting is in forty-eight hours. If we're going to pull this off, we need to be on the same page."

My brain is too fried to argue. And he's right. We do need to talk.

"Fine."

"Meet me in the dining room in an hour." He heads for the door, then pauses. "And Iris?"

"Yes?"

"Wear something comfortable. Not Felicity's clothes."

He leaves me standing there with my laptop and my racing thoughts.

I make my way upstairs, my legs shaky from sitting too long. In my room, I stare at Felicity's closet. Everything is tight, bright, designed to be noticed.

There's a knock at the door. Mrs. Chen enters with a smile and a garment bag.

"Mr. Laurent asked me to bring these up," she says, laying the bag on the bed. "He thought you might need options that actually fit."

Inside are clothes in my size. Simple jeans, soft sweaters, a dress that looks comfortable instead of constrictive. Tags still attached.

He bought me clothes. Dominic Laurent bought me clothes so I wouldn't have to squeeze into Felicity's anymore.

I don't know what to do with that information.

I choose the jeans and a cream sweater, pulling my hair into a ponytail. No makeup. No heels. Just me.

I stare at my reflection in the hallway mirror. Who am I supposed to be if I'm not pretending to be Felicity?

Just... Iris?

I'm not sure I even remember who that is.