This Means War

1. - LUIS -

one

- LUIS -

I watch her from across the room. Miss Monica May. Professional, poised, and as always remarkably composed. She’s seated at the head of the table, adjusting her blazer like she owns the place, which—let’s be honest—she kind of does.

There’s an air about her, something unspoken, that makes her stand out in any room. It’s not just how she carries herself, or the sharp intelligence that’s always evident in her every move. It’s the fact that she can do all that while never letting anyone see beneath the surface. Yet, she doesn’t come off as fake as fuck. I’ve been around enough diplomats and politicians to know that’s a rare skill. And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t intrigue me.

But today… today something else is in the air. The kind of tension that I’m sure Monica doesn’t notice. I’ve seen her navigate tense rooms before, but there’s a subtle shift when she takes her seat—when her eyes meet mine for the briefest moments. An honest look that makes me want to get to know her.

Something that says she’s aware of me, of my added attention. That she knows I’m not just watching her for her diplomatic skills.

The other guys around the table are oblivious. Boastful military types. Everyone’s so focused on their power plays and strategies. But I know better. I know how to read people. And I know there’s more to Monica than just the professionalism she projects.

Her voice pulls me out of my thoughts, smooth as ever, commanding the room’s attention. She starts talking strategy, just like she’s supposed to, laying out the facts like it’s second nature. Everyone listens, and I can’t help but admire how she holds the room.

I’ve been in meetings like these for years, and no one has ever commanded attention like her. Sure, she’s brilliant, no question there. But there’s something else. Something magnetic. Something that I’m sure has worked on many men before she secured some treaty. Peace is always the number-one thing she wants.

I shift in my seat, focusing on the whole room. But then I catch it. A flicker in the eyes, the slight shift in posture. It’s subtle. But it’s there as Monica looks back at me.

I don’t let my smile show, but damn, if I’m not tempted. Monica’s a puzzle. And I’m the kind of guy who loves a good puzzle.

There’s only one problem… I’m gay.

No one knows. But it’s not that Raf lets me forget. My bleeding heart, as he calls it, is always the punchline whenever he bests me. But damn, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve got the better angle with Monica.

When she starts outlining the next steps needed for a treaty, I lean forward, giving her my full attention. Not that she needs it. Monica’s used to being the center of things. And maybe, just maybe, she knows exactly how much we’re all watching her, how much we’re all a little bit… taken with her.

I can’t help but wonder—just for a second—what it would be like to break through that perfectly polished exterior. To see what’s hidden beneath.

But for now, all I can do is watch. Smile when I’m supposed to, laugh at the right moments, and play the part of a mid-level State Department trade official. It’s a role I know backward and forward, but every second I’m here, I’m reminded that talk is cheap. It’s only the truth that has the power to unravel everything.

The meeting ends with the usual polite applause, chairs scraping against the floor as everyone rises. Monica gathers her papers, sliding them neatly into a leather portfolio. The others are already filtering out, trading empty pleasantries or sidling up to whoever they think holds the most influence.

I stay back, lingering just enough to seem casual, though I know exactly what I’m doing.

She notices, of course. Monica may very well spot everything. If she wasn’t dedicated to her work at the UN, the CIA may have recruited her. That sharp gaze cuts through the room and lands on me, just for a moment, before she steps to the side, avoiding the crowd.

“Trade official, huh?” she says as I approach, her voice low enough not to carry.

“Guilty,” I reply, flashing the practiced grin that has disarmed many.

She raises an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. “And what exactly is your trade?”

“Cooperation,” I say smoothly. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to export goodwill these days.”

Her lips twitch, the closest I’ve seen to a genuine smile. “I’m sure.”

Few crave the truth; they long for the allure of intrigue. And it seems I’ve provided that. Even as the hum of conversations swirls around us, the clink of glasses echoes from the reception starting next door—her gaze lingers, a subtle signal that I’ve caught her continued fascination.

“You’ve got a talent for cutting through the noise,” I say, nodding toward the empty table where we sat moments ago. “Not many people can hold a room like that.”

Her expression softens, but only slightly. “And you? What’s your talent?”

“Listening,” I say, without missing a beat.

That earns a real smile, small but undeniable. “Good. You’ll need it if you’re serious about working with this crowd.”

It’s a dismissive tone, polite but firm, and I take the cue. As I step away, I catch Monica glancing at me again, her expression thoughtful. Attracted even.

What a puzzle. I'm hooked.

Monica moves toward the reception, and I hang back for a moment. Most people have already drifted in, eager to get to the socializing. I know better than to stand out here. The middle of the pack is where I thrive. No sense in being the star unless I can outshine Raf.

The conversations linger in the air like the last notes of a song, mixing with the clinking of glasses and the soft murmur of polished voices. Through the open doors there is a low hum of laughter, and a gasp that draws my attention.

“Alan Sheridan, that health CEO,” I manage to catch a woman saying, “He was shot dead today.”

The surprised reply of whoever she is talking to is cut off as I make my way in, Monica stands up from the crowd, shifting gears effortlessly as if the transition from strategy to socializing is nothing. She adjusts her blazer, smooth and poised, that perfect air of control. But there’s a flicker in her eyes—a subtle shift in her posture. For a moment, I think I catch her glancing toward the door like she’s plotting her exit or maybe just sizing up the crowd.

The words rarely matter until the officials get tipsy, and I witness the usual scene: diplomats laughing at bad jokes, hands shaking, smiles nervously sharper than necessary. The dance of power and influence is thick in the air as time goes on.

Then something shifts. Monica catches my eye again, moving with the same deliberate grace. But I notice her head dart around, almost like spotting something—or someone.

I can’t be imagining it. She’s uncomfortable.

I try not to make it obvious, but my attention locks on her. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to happen, but then it happens: a man approaches her. Well-dressed, broad-shouldered, and confident like he thinks the world belongs to him. He slides into her space, close enough that she has to angle her body just a little to keep her distance.

She’s polite, of course. Too polite. She always is. But there is a tightness in her shoulders, that little shift in her gaze, the way she barely meets his eyes that tells me she’s not happy. Not even close.

Her gaze flicks over to me. It’s barely a glance, but it’s enough. It’s like she’s telling me without saying a word.

I don’t wait for permission. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Men who think their presence is a favor to the room, and to the woman they’re speaking to. Men who think they can push into someone’s space and think nothing of it.

I slide through the crowd, smooth but deliberate. I don’t interrupt immediately, not wanting to make it worse by shouting from afar, but when I get close enough, I make sure my voice cuts through.

“Almost lost you there,” I say, my voice low enough for her to hear, handing her my untouched glass with a lazy smile. “Your drink.”

She glances over at me, confusion flooding her eyes at that moment before she’s back in control, a mask of politeness sliding over her features. She’s always so composed. But I’ve seen the cracks. “Sorry for making you fetch it.”

I offer her a smile before turning to the man beside her. Adam Renner. I recognize him easily—his tailored suit too sharp and posture too assured. A business strategist from London, the type who claims to defend minorities with his privilege but somehow keeps collecting awards that only seem to line his own pockets.

Oblivious to the subtext, he doesn’t hesitate and carries on to Monica, “You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said today, and I still don’t see why we can’t discuss it further over dinner.“

“I—uh…” Monica falters, her composure slipping just for a second. “If you want to talk business, I can arrange a meeting. Myself and a few colleagues are meeting tomorrow morning over coffee to discuss this proposal. You’re welcome to join us there.”

She turns to me, her posture already shifting back to something more comfortable. “Luis here,” she says quietly, and there’s something extra in her voice—gratefulness. “Has also agreed to join me to work out the final details.”

The first name was a choice, and Renner’s lips tightened at the idea of a group setting, disappointment clear, but he forced a polite smile. “Another time, maybe,” he adds, before stepping away.

Monica takes a breath as if testing the waters. “I think I may owe you that coffee,” she says lightly, but there’s something in the words—uncertainty, maybe. The true invitation? Or a polite way to end this?

“I’ll compromise on my drink back,” I say with a grin, raising an eyebrow.

Monica blinks, clearly surprised she’s still holding it. She quickly hands it back, her fingers brushing mine just slightly.

I can’t help but laugh, a real laugh this time as it’s returned. “If you like coffee, you should try Brewtiful Mornings.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you asking me out?”

I shake my head, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I’d never ask a woman out after someone bothered them,” I say, my tone playful but sincere. “It’s just a really good breakfast spot.”

She gives me the softest look before nodding, the smile playing on her lips making other grins in the room feel hollow. “Thanks. I should get back to mingling.”

I take a moment to collect myself, to blend back into the reception. But I can’t stop thinking about her, about that brief moment we shared. It probably means nothing, but I wonder—if we were different people, what could it have become?