Chapter Twenty
Gabriel
The war room smelled like threats: polished glass, spent adrenaline, scorched egos.
Twelve pairs of eyes cut to Eliza as she advanced on the table, heels precise, mouth set like a guillotine.
Every executive in the building had gathered here for the quarterly status review, but it felt like a public execution: hers.
If she made any mistakes, there was no one to take the blame. It would be her mistake, and she’d have to own it. But I knew there were no errors in her work. Not since the resignation of her mentor-turned-backstabber.
She clicked a remote, summoning the next slide. Numbers bled crimson across the screen, the loss column pulsing like a wound.
"Any questions?" she asked. Her voice was surgical, stripped of pleasantries. Her pulse was probably somewhere near lunar escape velocity, but only I could tell, because only I had studied her enough to catch the microtremors in her jaw.
Silence. Two directors stared at their hands, and the new VP from San Jose pretended to reread his notes. Only Reese, the CFO, pressed.
"Q4 looks bleak. Did you-" Reese began.
"If you had read the attached, you’d see Q4’s downstream was baked into the model," Eliza said, not even glancing his way. "But it’s fine, Reese. Let’s all pretend the memo got lost in the mailroom."
Her eyes flicked to mine; permission, challenge, and maybe a glimmer of that old collegiate rivalry: dare you to interrupt me.
I didn’t. She had it under control, and after the last seventy-two hours, she'd earned the right to take her own scalpels to this boardroom.
Instead, I sat back, arms folded, let the hum of power circle her. She was performing surgery on a living company, and the only thing she needed from me was to stand the fuck out of her way.
Reese tried again, flustered now. "It’s still a significant risk to-"
"To what? Hold the line for twelve more weeks until the acquisition clears? That’s not risk, Reese, that’s the job description.
" She turned to the rest of them, sharp as a steel-cable whip. "I was brought in to land the plane. I didn’t build the fuel shortage. I’m just here to make sure we don’t burn up on reentry.
If you want to discuss finger-pointing, I’m happy to schedule a separate meeting. "
I almost laughed, watching the air leave the room. This is what most men found threatening about Eliza; she didn’t just outmaneuver, she outgunned. I admired it. I also found it obscenely attractive, which was becoming a problem.
The CEO coughed, glancing my way. "Gabriel, any input?"
"Only that Ms. Reeves’s plan is the only viable one, unless someone’s invented a time machine," I said. "If the board disagrees, let’s put it to a vote. Otherwise, let her work."
Eliza flicked her gaze to me, sharp as a glass splinter, but this time the glint said: Not bad.
The meeting adjourned, the directors scattering like prey animals. Eliza lingered, gathering her laptop, her knuckles white. I waited until the last exec had cleared the door before I stepped up beside her.
"You’re welcome," I said.
"For what? Letting me fend off a pack of corporate hyenas alone, or declining to mansplain my own plan to me?"
"Both," I said, and I grinned. "Nice work."
Her mouth twitched. "Try to keep your gratitude off my shoes next time."
"You wear the shoes, you take the spotlight," I said. "Fair trade."
She shut her laptop with a snap. "You can quit posturing. The only reason they took my plan seriously was because you sat there and didn’t contradict me."
I shrugged. "Maybe I just like the way you humiliate overpaid men in boardrooms."
This earned me a glare, but it was softer, almost amused. "Doesn’t mean I like you."
"I’m fine with being hated, as long as you save the company."
She studied me then, as if she could parse out what percentage of my motives were professional and how much was something else.
"You didn’t sabotage the pipeline data," she said. "I checked."
I let the accusation hang for a beat. "I know."
She slipped a hand into her bag, pulling her phone, already multitasking. "Calvin wants to meet. Tonight."
"Of course, he does. Where?"
"Some bar in the Mission. He says it’s neutral ground." Her mouth twisted at the memory of her brother’s drama. "I said I’d bring you."
"I’ll drive," I said.
Eliza started for the elevator, her pace unhurried but efficient. I fell in step. Her perfume was different today; sharper, spiked with something that made it impossible to ignore. It wasn’t for me. It was for her.
The ride down was silent, the tension a third party crowding us.
"You like this," she said, eyes fixed on the glowing elevator numbers. "Being in charge of the mess."
"I like fixing things. Or people."
She tilted her head, refusing to look at me. "I’m not broken."
"Didn’t say you were." I didn’t let my voice slip. "But you’re still here, even after what happened."
Her lips parted. "You want me to quit? Fire myself? That’s your angle?"
"My angle is survival, Eliza. For both of us."
She met my eyes now, a dare. "You’re the one with the safety net. Family money, all those contingency plans. I lose this, I’m done."
"I know," I said, softer. "And I’m not here to pull your strings. I’m here to-" I stopped. I’d almost said help. The word made my tongue rebel. "-to make sure you get what you want."
Her eyes lingered a second longer than necessary. "You think you know what I want?"
"Only one way to find out."
The doors opened, and she stepped out. She didn’t look back, but I could hear the click of her heels echoing all the way down the marble corridor.
Calvin picked the kind of bar that had never once admitted it was a dive, but the tacky neon signs and bad music said otherwise. He was already at a high-top, twirling a coaster between restless fingers.
Eliza went in first, her chin up, her silhouette a dare in a world of half-broke tech bros and gig-economy strays. I followed, but kept a step behind. This was family turf, and I was, at best, an unwelcome witness.
"You made it," Calvin said, but the quip was forced.
Eliza slid onto a stool, leaning in. "You’re lucky I didn’t bring a murder weapon."
Calvin winced, running a hand through hair that had never met a comb. "Look, I fucked up. I didn’t know the man in my sister’s life was my best friend."
"You’d trust him with your life, but not your sister." Her words were sharp.
"I-" He glanced at me, searching for backup. I gave none.
Eliza shook her head, half exasperated, half fond. "You are a disaster."
Calvin’s grin reemerged, tired but real. "Family trait."
She studied him, then softened, just a bit. "Next time, I can handle myself."
He nodded. "Noted."
I caught Calvin’s eyes. We hadn’t spoken since the night he punched me. I offered a nod. Peace, at least for now.
He raised his pint. "To damage control."
Eliza surprised me by laughing, the sound bright, unrestrained. She clinked her glass against his, then mine.
She drank. Then she turned to me, her voice low but meant for both of us. "I’m going home. You’re coming with me."
It wasn’t a question.
Calvin snickered, then rolled his eyes. "Gross. But expected." He finished his beer and slid out. "See you, Liz. Try not to break him."
"Night, Cal," she said, but her eyes never left mine.
We left together, the night a wet blur of neon and rain. I kept pace with her, wanting to touch her but holding back. It wasn’t time yet.
Her apartment was a corner unit, high up, windows like an aquarium for city light. She dropped her bag, tossed her heels aside with a sigh, and kicked off her jacket.
"Make yourself useful," she said, pointing at the kitchen.
I found glasses, poured two whiskeys. When I returned, she was standing by the window, arms crossed, cityscape reflected in the black panes.
"I can’t sleep," she said, taking the glass. "Never could. Not before a big risk."
"What do you do?" I asked.
"Usually work. Or run." She glanced at her bare feet. "But right now, I just want to stop thinking for ten seconds."
I set my glass down. Closed the distance between us. Her breath was whiskey and something desperate.
"I can help with that," I said.
She blinked, but didn’t step back. "You’re not going to make me ask, are you?"
"No," I said, and kissed her.
It was not gentle. There was nothing tentative in the way her hands grabbed my shirt, or how my grip found her waist, pulled her closer, bent her back. She opened her mouth, hungry, the collision of teeth and tongue unfiltered.
I pressed her against the glass, feeling the heat of her body and the cold press of the window. Her nails dug into my shoulders, and she laughed against my mouth.
"Take off your tie," she said. "It’s giving me corporate trauma."
I obliged, tossing it aside. She seized my wrist, spun me around so my back met the glass now, and raked her gaze down my chest.
"Been thinking about this since you torpedoed my chance to get even with Whitman," she said, her hands on my buttons.
"You still won in the end."
"Fuck you."
I laughed.
She pulled my shirt off, tossing it over a chair. Her hands were decisive, clever, a little rough. I let her lead, let her decide how fast, how far.
She stepped out of her skirt, stripped to black lace, and for a second just stood there, letting me look.
"You’re staring," she said.
"I’m learning," I replied.
She grinned, then pounced.
We collapsed onto the couch, limbs tangling, breathless. I slid my hand down her thigh, found her soaked through, every inch of her thrumming. She bit my neck, hard enough to mark.
"Don’t hold back," she said, panting.
"Wouldn’t dream of it."
She straddled me, fingers in my hair, grinding until we both lost the ability to think. Her skin was fire under my palms, all sleek muscle and defiant pulse. I pulled her bra off, ran my tongue over her breasts, and she hissed, nails digging into my back.
She shifted, lined me up, and sank down slow, her head tipped back. I groaned, gripping her hips, grounding myself in the rhythm of her.
She rode me hard, relentless, as if she could fuck away every problem. I let her, let her use me, because I wanted this as much as she did.
When she came, she clenched her jaw, eyes blazing, and shook apart in my hands.
After, she collapsed against me, shuddering. We sat there, sweat-slicked, breathing in tandem.
"You’re not a safe choice," she said, voice muffled in my neck.
"I’m not looking for safe."
She kissed me again, slower this time. We moved to the bedroom, and I made love to her with every ounce of control I possessed, memorizing the way her body responded to every touch. The second time was softer, almost reverent.
Afterward, she lay beside me, tracing patterns on my chest.
"Don’t fuck me over," she said.
"Not in my plans," I said, meaning it.
She looked up, searching for the lie. She didn’t find one.
"Good," she said, and let her head fall against my shoulder.
We lay there, city lights flickering through the blinds, our hands entwined on the sheets. For once, I felt not just in control, but understood.
Tomorrow, the world would spin again; more crisis, more fire. But tonight, we were a team.
And I’d never wanted anything more.