CHAPTER 7
1262 Words
The boardroom doors closed with a muted click that carried more authority than most raised voices.
Tristan Moore stood at the head of the table, suit impeccable, posture relaxed in a way that made everyone else tense. Around him sat twelve executives—men and women who commanded industries, who spoke in numbers large enough to bend economies. Yet none of them spoke now. They were waiting.
Victoria stood just behind and to the side of Tristan’s chair, tablet held neatly against her arm, eyes lowered to the agenda even as she absorbed everything happening in the room. This position—half-shadow, half-anchor—had become instinct in the past week.
She knew the rhythm of him now. When he was about to strike. When he was about to dismantle someone carefully and without mercy.
“Let’s begin,” Tristan said calmly.
The CFO cleared his throat and launched into projections for the upcoming merger. Charts appeared on the screen. Forecasts. Risk assessments.
Victoria watched Tristan’s jaw tighten almost imperceptibly.
She tapped her tablet once, twice.
He didn’t look at her—but he registered it.
When the CFO finished, Tristan spoke.
“Your projections assume consumer trust remains stable,” he said evenly. “It won’t.”
A murmur rippled around the table.
The CFO stiffened. “Our data suggests—”
“Your data is three weeks old,” Tristan interrupted. “Victoria.”
She stepped forward immediately, connecting her tablet to the screen without a word. Updated analytics appeared—new numbers, real-time trends, a sharp dip in consumer confidence following an overseas data breach.
The room went silent. Victoria hadn’t been asked to prepare this. She had anyway.
Tristan glanced at the screen, then at the CFO. “Next time,” he said quietly, “don’t make me correct you.”
The CFO nodded stiffly, chastened.
Victoria stepped back into place. No acknowledgment. No thanks. She didn’t expect any.
The meeting continued like that—each executive presenting, each illusion of control stripped bare under Tristan’s scrutiny. He asked questions no one else thought to ask, poked at weak points with surgical precision.
Victoria anticipated everything.
When Tristan paused mid-sentence, she slid a document onto the table. When he reached for information, it was already displayed. When a legal concern arose, she passed him the relevant clause without breaking stride.
She was invisible. And indispensable.
Across the table, a board member watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. “Your assistant seems unusually prepared.”
Tristan didn’t look at Victoria. “Competence is a requirement.”
The words were flat, dismissive. Victoria felt them land anyway.
She focused on the agenda, reminding herself why she was here. Why she endured this cold efficiency without protest.
Survival did not require recognition. Only endurance.
Two hours later, the meeting adjourned. The executives filed out quietly, some pale, others grimly impressed. Tristan remained standing, reviewing notes on his tablet. Victoria stayed where she was, waiting.
“Reschedule legal for tomorrow,” he said without looking up. “And push the press release back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And cancel lunch.”
She hesitated—just a fraction. “You haven’t eaten today.”
His gaze lifted, sharp.“Is that a comment or a concern?”
She lowered her eyes. “A reminder.”
He studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable.
“Cancel it,” he repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
They returned to their respective positions—him to his office, her to the desk just outside it. The glass wall between them reflected the familiar image: Tristan Moore at the center of power, Victoria Blair just beyond it.
She worked steadily through the afternoon, fielding calls, organizing documents, preparing briefs she suspected he wouldn’t even know existed until he needed them.
By three, her hands ached faintly. By four, her head throbbed. She took a discreet sip of water and kept going.
At five, the phone rang again. Victoria answered smoothly. “Office of Mr. Moore.”
Her expression shifted slightly as she listened.
“Yes,” she said carefully. “He’s in a meeting.”
A pause.
“I understand,” she added. “I’ll let him know.”
She hung up and stood, smoothing her skirt before walking into Tristan’s office.
“Sir,” she said, “your mother called.”
The temperature in the room dropped.
Tristan didn’t look up. “And?”
“She requested a meeting.”
He set his tablet down slowly.
“No.”
“She insisted it was urgent.”
He finally raised his eyes. They were cold. Flat. Unyielding.
“I said no.”
Victoria nodded. “Understood.”
She turned to leave.
“Victoria.”
She stopped.
“Yes, sir?”
“Did she say anything else?”
Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides. “She said family matters shouldn’t be avoided forever.”
His jaw hardened.
“Forward all future calls to legal,” he said. “And block the number.”
“Yes, sir.”
She left, heart beating just a little faster than before.
The rest of the day passed in controlled efficiency.
At seven, Victoria was still at her desk.
At seven-thirty, Tristan exited his office, jacket in hand. He paused when he saw her.
“You’re still here.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She looked up. “There were revisions.”
He glanced at the clock. “They could wait.”
“They won’t,” she said quietly.
He studied her, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said.
The words surprised them both.
Victoria blinked. “I’m not.”
“Then why do you look like you’re bracing for impact?”
Her breath caught.
Because I always am.
She didn’t say it.
“I’m just tired,” she said instead.
For a moment, Tristan looked like he might say something else.
He didn’t.
“Finish up,” he said. “Then go home.”
She nodded. “Good night, sir.”
He walked away.
When Victoria finally left the building, night had fully settled over the city. She stepped onto the street, the cool air biting gently at her skin.
She exhaled slowly.
Another day survived.
She pulled her coat tighter around herself and headed for the bus stop, mind already shifting to her children, to medication schedules and homework and the fragile peace of home.
Behind her, high above the street, Tristan stood alone in his office, staring out at the city he ruled.
The board meeting had been a success. The numbers were strong. The future secure.
And yet— His gaze drifted to the empty desk outside his office.
Victoria Blair had stood quietly at his side all day, absorbing the weight of his decisions without complaint, without credit.
She hadn’t tried to soften him. Hadn’t asked for understanding. Hadn’t once brought up the past.
She had simply… held the line.
Tristan frowned, an unfamiliar tension settling in his chest.
He didn’t need support. He never had.
And yet, for the first time in a long time, he wondered what it meant that she had given it anyway—silently, efficiently, without asking for anything in return.
The thought unsettled him more than any challenge in the boardroom ever could.
He turned away from the window, shutting off the lights.
Tomorrow, he told himself, would be no different.
Cold. Controlled. Ruthless.
That was the only way this worked.
And he intended to keep it that way.
- Writer
