Chapter Three
Eliza
Gabriel Valor’s name was on the glass, two inches tall, frosted in laser-perfect Helvetica —the kind of office marker meant to say, Fuck you, I’m important.
I reached his cabin door and entered in. I didn’t knock. Knocking was for people who needed permission.
He looked up, in that slow, surgical way of his, like the world had only just occurred to him and, frankly, he wasn’t impressed.
“Eliza,” he said with a neutral and deadly calm.
I set the manila folder on his desk with enough force to make the crystal glass of water - I hoped it was water, anyway, be better to not have been drinking on the job - rattle.
“Care to explain why, after I told you that wasn’t my version, you mass emailed the board that my mistakes wouldn’t happen again? ”
He barely blinked. “There was an inconsistency. I flagged it. Standard protocol.”
Standard protocol, my ass. “You flagged it after I specifically told you that it wasn’t my error. If you had a concern, you could have waited for this planned meeting to discuss the issue before publicly – and incorrectly – calling me out.”
“I wasn’t aware we were coloring outside the lines of process,” he said, that infuriating upper lip not moving a millimeter. “I assumed, since your tactics were so aggressive, you’d want them pressure-tested. I did you a favor.”
I had to laugh; short, sharp, a bark that did nothing to break his composure. “If by favor you mean ‘attempted public execution,’ then yes, thank you so much for that.”
His chair didn’t squeak when he leaned back. Of course not. “You’re angry,” he observed, clinically. “But if the numbers are as solid as you claim, there’s nothing to worry about.”
There it was. The dare.
I opened the folder and slid the top sheet across. “You want to walk through this, line by line? Or do you need to schedule it with your assistant?”
He didn’t smile, but something flickered at the corner of his mouth. “I have time.”
We bent over the spreadsheet, shoulder to shoulder, the air growing unreasonably dense for an air-conditioned office.
I inhaled the scent of him, that infuriating cologne, heat that didn’t match his ice-water demeanor, and a hint of wet metal.
I pointed. “You’re focusing on Q2 variance, but you’re missing the context. Here and here; these line items balance out the shortfall.”
He scanned, fast and precise, and I watched his eyes move like scanner beams over my work. “This forecast,” he said, tapping a cell, “assumes 12% month-over-month growth in Tier 2 markets. Historical average is 9.2. Why the optimism?”
“Because we have three closed contracts waiting to land, and I already know two of them are done deals. Just waiting on signatures.” He wants a battle? I’ll do battle.
He looked at me, full-on. “And you’re certain?”
“I don’t put anything on paper I can’t defend.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. I could hear the hum of his monitor, the distant clatter of someone’s heels in the hallway, and my own pulse, which apparently had opinions about Gabriel Valor’s proximity.
I stared at the info, then checked the edit history, seeing that my report had been edited after my final save at two-something a.m. “Something isn’t right.”
Beside me, Gabriel lifted an eyebrow. “These numbers were right in your last saved version. Did anyone have access to your spreadsheet after you finalized it?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Probably just tired fingers.” He sounded convinced it was actually an unintentional error, but I hated that there was an error at all. I didn’t make mistakes. But perhaps it was sleep deprivation and stress.
He seemed interested. “Show me the pipeline data,” he said.
I had it, of course. Pulled up on my phone, ready to airdrop. “You want it, or are you afraid your firewall won’t be strong enough to protect you from whatever I might send with the documents?”
He shrugged, all calm arrogance. “Send it.”
I hit send. The data blinked onto his desktop. He scrolled, eyes narrowing at the unfamiliar dashboard. “This isn’t company-issue CRM.”
“No,” I said, letting the word hang. “It’s better. I built it.”
That finally drew a reaction; his eyebrow twitched up, the equivalent of another man doing a spit take. “You built your own forecasting tool.”
“I’m not here to play catch-up.”
He scrolled, then stopped. “Wait. Back up. These timestamps; when did you log these?”
I leaned in, invading his personal space. “Last night. Around two. If you’d like, I can screen-share the audit trail. Unlike some people, I don’t edit history.”
His lips pressed tighter. If I’d been ten percent less furious, I’d have called it a smile. “Noted. The numbers are all correct here, so there must have just been a typo, maybe when you pulled up the model. I wonder who could have gotten under your skin enough to mess you up.”
“Certainly not you.”
He closed the window. “You’ve made your point, Eliza.”
Not quite. “Actually, I’d like you to retract the error flag with the board. Publicly.” I know I’m pushing my luck, but I need to do this for me.
He studied me, only his eyes moving. I’d swear the bastard wasn’t even breathing. “You’re requesting a correction.”
“I’m demanding one,” I corrected. “Unless you’d prefer to spar in front of the full executive committee and lose. I want you to show me one person who hasn’t fat-finger pushed a button on a report in their entire lives.”
His jaw shifted. “Very well.” He reached for his keyboard. “You’re aware this will cause a ripple. They’ll want a post-mortem.”
“I’ll lead it. I have nothing to hide.” I waited, silent, until he’d finished drafting whatever apology-couched-as-corporate-update he was about to send.
He read it aloud, voice smooth as a scalpel: “Upon further review, the projected variance in Ms. Reeves’s Q2 report has been substantiated with additional pipeline evidence. The matter is resolved.”
He looked at me. “Satisfactory?”
“I’d have preferred ‘my mistake,’ but I know that’s not in your vocabulary.” I arched an eyebrow at him, loving the way his eyes narrowed just a fraction of an inch.
He clicked Send. “Would you like to add an addendum?”
“Not unless you plan on learning the words ‘I’m sorry’ in the next ten seconds.”
A long, tense pause. Then: “Sorry you had to waste time on this, Eliza.”
It was something, I guess.
I let it go.
I moved to leave, but he caught my eye again. “You’re efficient,” he said, almost musing. “But you could do more with less.”
“Is that a compliment, or a threat?”
He folded his hands, considering. “An observation. You don’t delegate. You don’t trust the tools provided. It’s effective… until it isn’t.”
I rolled my eyes. “Spare me the management seminar.”
He shook his head. “I’m not trying to manage you. I’m trying to understand why someone so smart makes herself work twice as hard.”
My skin prickled. “Maybe I just enjoy being right and being able to prove it.” Translation: I’ve had to work twice as hard to get half as much credit as my male counterparts.
There’s a reason woman in my position is known as ice queens and bitches.
We have to be, or we get trampled by those on their way to the top.
“I don’t doubt it,” he said.
He stood, not tall enough to intimidate, but with a kind of focused gravity that made him seem taller. “If you’re done here, I need to prepare for the audit.”
I paused at the door. “Next time, Valor, try asking first.”
He didn’t answer, but as I pulled the door closed behind me, I caught the faintest ghost of a smile in the reflection. Not smug, almost... intrigued.
The office outside was freezing, the glass walls all the more transparent after a battle of attrition with Gabriel Valor.
I walked the corridor, head high, and every eye that looked up from their screens flickered away just a little too late.
I wondered how many of them thought I’d caved.
How many assumed the golden boy had cut me down.
Or how many of them thought I’d slept with him to gain favor.
With a disgusted curl to my lip at the thought, I replayed the confrontation as I walked. The way he’d tried to corner me. The way I’d cornered him back. The way the air had felt… hot, strange, like the moments before an electrical storm.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number.
I thumbed it open.
You’re right about the contracts. Congrats. –G
No actual signature, but I recognized the cadence. I almost threw the phone, then laughed. Instead, I texted back.
Next time, check the data before you waste my time.
No reply.
I grinned. It was ugly and beautiful at the same time.
I stopped by the glass-walled breakroom, poured myself the last inch of bitter coffee, and watched as Gabriel stalked past on his way to the conference room. He saw me and nodded, that weird, infuriating micro-acknowledgement.
Game on, Valor.
From that moment, I vowed to verify every number, every attachment, every goddamn comma. I never again wanted to rely on my original data dump, and I never, ever planned to let him hesitate before admitting he was wrong.
Especially if his name was on the door.