TERMS

POV — Catriona

I arrive at eight.

Not 8:02. Not 7:59.

Eight.

If Shawn Reid is going to test me, he will not find fault in discipline.

The executive floor is quieter than usual — early sunlight cutting across glass and marble, turning everything cold and precise. Power looks different in the morning. Less theatrical. More dangerous.

His assistant doesn’t look surprised to see me.

“He’s expecting you.”

Of course he is.

The office door is already open.

He stands near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled once — not casual, just strategic. The skyline behind him looks like territory he owns.

“You’re punctual,” he says without turning.

“You said eight.”

“I did.”

He finally faces me.

No small talk. No pleasantries. Just assessment.

“Sit.”

I don’t hesitate.

A folder rests on the coffee table between us.

“Open it.”

Inside is the acquisition proposal. The one I rewrote.

Marked. Annotated. Ruthlessly dissected in black ink.

“You were right about clause fourteen,” he says calmly. “The minority shareholder exposure was avoidable.”

A beat.

“But you were wrong about motive.”

I look up. “Explain.”

“I wanted it vulnerable.”

That lands.

I keep my expression neutral.

“Why?”

He studies me like this is the real interview.

“Because pressure reveals loyalty,” he says. “If minority shareholders panic, I learn who folds. Who leaks. Who aligns.”

Ah. Not reckless. Calculated instability.

“You manufactured legal tension to test internal allegiance,” I say slowly.

“Yes.”

“And you assumed I wouldn’t see it.”

“I assumed,” he corrects, “that you would react exactly as you did.”

My pulse tightens.

“This was a test.”

“Everything is a test.”

The air shifts — not flirtation. Strategy.

“You rewrote my vulnerability,” he continues. “Which means you’re either brave… or naive.”

“I don’t rewrite documents for attention.”

“Then why?”

“Because your reputation can absorb risk,” I say. “But the firm can’t afford systemic fracture.”

His gaze sharpens.

There it is again. That flicker. Approval restrained behind discipline.

“You think in structures,” he says quietly.

“I think long-term.”

Silence stretches. Not uncomfortable. Measured.

He walks toward his desk, picks up a slim contract, and hands it to me.

“Effective today, you’re reassigned.”

“To?”

“Direct strategic research under me.”

That was not the answer I expected.

“That’s not standard intern rotation.”

“You’re not standard.”

Dangerous words.

I don’t react.

“What are the terms?” I ask.

A slow smile. Now we’re speaking the same language.

“You report only to me. No external discussions. No independent revisions without clearance. You observe. You analyze. You learn how controlled risk actually works.”

“And in exchange?”

“Recommendation letter. Full access to internal case archives. And your tuition gap covered.”

My breath almost falters.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Scholarship covers half,” he says evenly. “You work two jobs on weekends. Your mother works overtime.”

Ice runs down my spine.

“You investigated me.”

“I evaluate investments.”

I close the folder carefully.

“I’m not an investment.”

“Everything is.”

The room feels smaller. Sharper.

“What’s the real price?” I ask.

He steps closer — not touching. Never touching.

“Loyalty.”

That word lands heavier than money.

“You want exclusivity.”

“I want discretion.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It is in this building.”

Silence. A chessboard invisible between us.

“If I accept,” I say carefully, “I work for the firm. Not for you.”

His jaw tightens — almost imperceptibly.

“You work where I assign value.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You return to standard intern rotation.”

“And the tuition?”

“Remains your problem.”

There it is. Not coercion. Leverage.

He doesn’t force. He presents.

I stand. So we’re eye level.

“You don’t intimidate me,” I say quietly.

“I don’t try to.”

That’s the truth. He doesn’t intimidate. He calculates.

“You said advancement requires compromise,” I remind him.

“Yes.”

“I don’t compromise my future.”

“Good,” he says softly. “Neither do I.”

The silence stretches again — thicker now. Not adversarial. Aligned. Almost.

“What happens,” I ask, “if your strategy and my ethics collide?”

His gaze darkens — intrigued.

“Then we see which one survives.”

That should scare me. It doesn’t.

It should feel manipulative. It doesn’t.

It feels like stepping onto a battlefield where the opponent respects your intelligence.

“I want one amendment,” I say.

He raises a brow.

“You’re negotiating?”

“I’m setting boundaries.”

“Impressive. Go on.”

“If I see legal exposure that endangers the firm beyond strategic intention, I have the right to speak.”

“You already do.”

“Not without penalty.”

His eyes narrow slightly.

“You assume I punish dissent.”

“I assume power dislikes contradiction.”

A slow exhale. Measured.

“You may speak,” he says. “But understand something, Catriona.”

“What?”

“If you challenge me, you must be prepared to win.”

The words hum between us. Not threat. Invitation.

I extend my hand.

“I accept.”

He looks at it. Not surprised. Not rushed. Then he takes it.

His grip is firm. Controlled. Brief.

But the contact is electric in a way that has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with ambition colliding.

“Eight tomorrow,” he says.

“For work?”

“For escalation.”

My heartbeat misfires.

He releases me first. Always in control.

I walk toward the door, but his voice stops me.

“One more thing.”

I turn.

“You’re not here because you need money,” he says.

I hold his gaze.

“You’re here because you want power.”

The truth slices clean.

I don’t deny it.

He nods once. Satisfied.

When I leave his office, I understand something I didn’t before.

This isn’t about attraction.

It isn’t about dominance.

It’s about alignment.

And if we’re not careful—

This won’t be a romance.

It will be a war.