Thirteen - Engaged #2
Some guy I don’t recognize—younger, probably an assistant—leans forward in his box. “What if we reframe it completely? We could position this as strategic psychological warfare.”
The phrase hits me like a slap. Psychological warfare? What the fuck?
Mom frowns. “Explain.”
The guy seems emboldened by her interest. “We lean into the calculated angle. Cassian wasn’t being kind—he was analyzing a future competitor.
Getting into the kid’s head early, establishing dominance through apparent benevolence.
It’s the long game. The Vale approach to total competitive domination. ”
Something sour rises in my throat. Wait—wait—wait. He’s suggesting…
They want to… The one genuine moment I’ve had in years—no, in my entire public life—and they want to twist it, and keep twisting until it’s dead, wrung out of everything. Only to drown it in calculation and cold, strategic analysis.
And then plaster it on me. Put my face on it.
They… It’s not…
“That could work,” Priya nods. “We’d need supporting content—maybe a series on Cassian’s mental approach to competition, emphasizing psychological tactics. ”
“We could backdate the narrative,” another voice chimes in, can’t even tell who. “Make it seem like this has always been part of his competitive toolkit. We have enough footage of him observing other riders that we could cut together a package suggesting pattern and intent.”
They can’t. This is my life, my career. Fuck, what are they saying?
My fingernails dig into my palms, fists shaking against my thighs. I want to scream. I want to flip this desk and let them sort out how to spin my psych ward admittance back to message, on brand.
They’re going back and forth, one idea building on the last. Like I’m not in their radars, let alone they’re computer screens.
What do I do? They can’t—
“No.”
Mom’s voice, cutting through the noise like a butcher’s cleaver through shank bone. Absolute. Final.
“Through childhood, through his teens, everything,” Mom says, shaking her head. “And what have you learned, Priya?”
Priya doesn’t answer. Can’t form the words, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.
“My son…is NOT …a manipulator,” she says, slowly, as a menace. “My son is a champion. Disciplined, focused, excellent—all of it. He’s been consistently top-ranked exactly by being the type of person who would never engage in psychological warfare. With anyone. Let alone a damn child .”
Silence. My lips gape, just looking at the simmering rage in her eyes, the slight curl of her lips.
“Anyone who feels otherwise can log off this instant,” she goes on. “I’ll send in your termination agreements.”
“Of course, Diana,” Priya says, carefully. “We were just—”
“You were just wasting time,” Mom cuts her off. “Any strategy we develop needs to be something Cassian can get on board with. Something authentic to who he is.”
Authentic? The word echoes strangely in my head. When has authenticity ever been part of our brand strategy?
For a brief, dizzying moment, hope flickers in my chest. Maybe she sees me after all. Maybe she understands what’s been happening at Riverlight, how I’ve been changing, growing into someone more real than the cardboard cutout we’ve sold to the world.
But then cold reality washes over me. This meeting wasn’t called to defend my honor. This is about protecting the performance. Protecting me is secondary.
Mom knows I couldn’t convincingly sell such a blatant lie.
I’ve been trained to be many things, but “calculating manipulator of children” isn’t one of them.
The public wouldn’t buy it. The sponsors wouldn’t buy it.
And the narrative would crumble anyway, just taking a different, way more monstrous route.
Even if it’s love that’s having her near growling on camera on my behalf, what she’s saying isn’t freeing me. It’s just adding enrichment to my cage.
“Cassian.”
I jolt at my name. Carl, the sponsor, yes. I’m listening. Soft smile, curt nod.
“We’ve heard strategy, but what we really need to know is this: will Ruin be ready? Our Q4 campaign is built around his debut. We need confidence that it’s on track.”
All eyes are on me, but I slip into the role as easily as breathing.
“Ruin is evolving every day,” I say, the words flowing like I’m reading from a teleprompter. “His progress has exceeded our initial projections, and we’re fine-tuning elements that will maximize his competitive edge. The partnership is strengthening exactly as planned.”
Carl nods, thoroughly satisfied with getting not a single concrete detail or timeline out of me. “Good to hear. Keep us updated on any major developments.”
It’s like they don’t even listen. Why the fuck are we even here?
“We should wrap this up,” Mom interjects smoothly. “Thank you all for your time and input. Priya, I’ll expect revised strategy options by end of day tomorrow.”
The goodbyes are cold and transactional, like most every time. Business completed, assets managed. Even Mom’s farewell is clipped and professional—she’ll come visit in a week, gotta run, bye. And I get it. She’s got an entire inferno on her hands; this was just one outbreak.
The moment the last box disappears and the call ends, I release my breath in a rush, like I’ve been holding it for hours. I check my clock. 8:15 PM.
With a swat I don’t tame, I knock the phone from its perfect angle on the desk.
It clatters against the wood, screen down, rejected, and I mimic it, collapsing forward, head dropping dead onto my forearms. My neck aches from the rigid posture, muscles too from holding everything so tight.
I force them to release, one by one, shedding the perfect posture like a snake shedding skin.
Or more like a butterfly escaping a chrysalis.
As in I turned my body into goo for this shit .
Because that’s how it feels. Like my body’s been digested and dissolved. Like I did all the work, and all that’s left to show for it is an empty shell and a beautiful butterfly that escaped without me. That I let escape. My fault.
And that I’ll never get back again.