Chapter 11
STRATEGIC ANNIHILATION
NOLAN
Coffee warms my palms as I lean against the front window of the café near my loft—one of those places with mismatched chairs and baristas who judge your order on sight.
Outside, the city hums to life in that familiar, bustling tune. The skyline’s softened by morning haze, but my head’s still hung up on the girl with the cider and the claws.
Rorie Adams.
That woman called me a corporate vulture to my face and made it sound like a goddamn compliment.
She smelled like late nights, and jasmine, the ghost of a flower that only blooms when no one’s looking. And her skin tasted like cinnamon set on fire. I’d chase it until my lungs gave out.
I came home that night and took a cold shower, muttering half-formed curses into the tile like a man possessed. It’s been so fucking long since I’ve had someone under my hands, under my mouth, and I almost lost it.
One lick of that pulse point on her neck, and I was ready to rewrite every rule I ever made about keeping personal and professional separate.
I’m drawn to her. To her bite. Her burn. Her fucking righteousness. I love her fire. But Jesus, she’s going to have to get over this feud of ours eventually.
Still, she’s not wrong.
You poached my clients.
Your billion-dollar firm blew it up like it was just another line item.
That’s what she said. And yeah, we did. We moved fast. We were leaner. Smarter. That’s how the game is played.
But that wasn’t a game to her. That was months of sleepless nights and preparations. That was pride. That was her reputation.
And my firm turned it into collateral damage.
It’s been looping in my head since she said it. So I asked Rishi casually, in the car on the way home.
“Did we cut rates on the Laurel Group pitch?”
He blinked, frowned. “Not on my watch.”
I didn’t push it further. If Rishi doesn’t know about it, it means someone went around us. Undercut without telling the team. And whoever it was, it worked. We landed the account. The firm celebrated.
But something’s amiss. I can feel it. Her accusations don’t add up. Neither does the silence.
And now, I can’t stop thinking about her, standing there with her spine straight, chin lifted, and her voice shaking, not from fear, but from fury.
Rorie was right. We didn’t just win.
We took. Stole.
Whether Big Stream meant to or not, we made her collateral.
I rub the back of my neck, jaw clenched so tight it aches. I’ve been called worse than a vulture or a poacher. But the way she said it—like I wasn’t just winning—I was breaking something that mattered, it all lodged under my skin and hasn’t let go.
I’m a fixer by nature. I see broken things, and I want to put them back together. But this? Her?
She’s not mine to fix.
Still, I want to try.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Shelby Asher Cross Liaison.
Fucking great. Tammy probably slipped Shelby’s contact into my phone herself. Part of her “Preparedness is professional foreplay” philosophy. Love how she saved her name. That Tammy, always so detailed.
I brace myself.
Whatever Shelby’s about to say—it won’t be half as loud as the voice in my head whispering Rorie’s name.
Heyyyyy Nolan :) Long time, no talk!
Daddy Thatcher set up happy hour like he’s your social secretary. Cute!
Are we still on for next Thursday? Should I bring coloring books to keep your attention?
Also… no RSVP yet for Crossfire? It’s TOMORROW, my dude. Way to be fashionably late. LOL
You do know the point is to show up, right?
Let me know if I need to drop flashcards at your office to help you remember how career-making moments work
xxoo Shelby
I groan and rub my temples. I hate shotgun texts. No structure. Just emojis and threats like she’s throwing glitter at a forest fire.
Still. She’s the gatekeeper to one of the biggest clients we’ve ever gone after. And the world doesn’t stop just because I got my heart kicked in and my pride lit on fire.
I’m flattered by the sheer volume of your follow-ups.
Somewhere between message four and the emoji assault, I nearly RSVP’d out of fear.
I’ll be there tomorrow. No need for flashcards or crayons—though if you DO bring coloring books, Rishi might actually stay past the first drink.
Try not to spontaneously combust before then. -N
Once I step outside into the New York humidity, heat presses against my skin like judgment. People laugh. Horns blare. The city doesn’t care if my head’s a war zone.
It just keeps moving.
I should, too.
The streets blur as I walk. Asphalt sweat and car horns, scaffolding shadows, someone yelling at Siri across the intersection, another walking and talking while FaceTiming—it’s all too loud. Too much. Like the world’s at full volume, and I forgot how to turn down the dial.
I walk two more blocks and duck into my building. The doorman nods. I don’t wait for the elevator. Fifteenth floor.
Inside my loft, everything’s still where it shouldn’t be. The space is lopsided without Chloe’s things. One side of the closet looks like it’s been robbed. I never realized how many clothes she had here until now.
The bookshelf has a blank spot where her picture used to live. The kitchen counter is missing that stupid ceramic utensil holder shaped like a swan. God, I hated that swan.
I grab a protein shake from the fridge, chug half of it, and stare at the cork board by my desk.
It’s covered in pitch material for a company named Bone Dust, specializing in gourmet coffee.
Unique. Grim Reaper meets high-end coffee house.
Think death-themed branding with beans dark enough to haunt your ancestors and caffeine strong enough to wake the dead.
And Rorie Adams.
I saw her name on the internal docket. I knew she was competing for this account before we even showed up at trivia. But it hits differently now. More like a collision course.
My phone buzzes again. Tammy.
You owe me an answer on the Crossfire wardrobe. No, a navy button-down isn’t “timeless,” it’s boring. Do better.
Shelby wants a reply too. Be charming. But not like, predator charming. I beg you.
It’s handled.
Handled? That’s vague Bond villain energy. Please try to act like a man who hasn’t emotionally shut down.
Can you pull all correspondence related to Vanguard? Emails, texts, budgets—anything with a timestamp and a paper trail. Someone played fast and loose, and I want to know who.
On it, Boss.