“I am the only thing standing between you and a world that would eat you alive,” he says softly. “Do you understand that?”
“I understand you think that,” she says, the words thick with anger. “I’m starting to suspect you’re wrong.”
He releases her.
Straightens his jacket.
“There will be no more dances,” he says. “No more meetings. No more late‑night ‘consulting.’ If I hear you have so much as exchanged emails with him outside of formal bid channels, I will shut you out so completely you won’t know which way is up.”
“You can’t—” she starts.
“I can,” he says. “I can cut your cards. Your stipend. Your access to every Moretti shell. I can have the doormen instructed not to let you into your own building. And if that doesn’t dissuade you—”
He leans in.
His eyes are cold.
“I will erase
