ONE NIGHT TOO LATE

READYTO WIN

Anne's POV

The word ‘Denied’ was burning a hole through my skull.

It stared back at me from Clara’s computer screen, a single, stark Judgement that shattered my last hope for escape. The kind HR representative had delivered the news with an apologetic wince, but the message had been without any arguments. Mr. Clark himself denied the request. He insists your work is too valuable to the core team here.

Valuable. The word was a mockery. I was a commodity to him, an asset. A piece of inconvenient human baggage he now owned and refused to let go of. I thought I would just come here, take my stuffs I left and drop the car but that's not happening any time soon.

I managed a stiff nod, a mumbled “Thank you for trying, Clara,” before fleeing her office. The hallway walls seemed to press in on me, the sterile, recycled air suddenly suffocating. He had me cornered. There was no escape. I was trapped in this glittering glass prison, forced to work daily under the gaze of the man who had seen me at my most vulnerable, my most shattered, and my most… intimate.

The memory of that morning in his mansion, the frantic scramble for my clothes, the cold marble under my bare feet, the shame burning like a brand, flooded back with nauseating force. And now, he held my entire professional future in his hands. The power imbalance was so clear, it felt like a physical weight on my chest.

I stumbled back to my desk, my vision blurring. Carla was saying something about trivia night, her voice a distant buzz. Victor was laughing. The normalcy of it all was a bizarre, cruel joke. Didn’t they see the walls were closing in? Didn’t they feel the shift in my world?

And then my computer chimed. A new email.

The sender’s name alone sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through my system.

From: Justin Clark

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I clicked it open, my hand trembling so violently the mouse skittered across the pad.

Ms. Idia,

Your draft presentation on the Atherton acquisition requires significant refinement. The risk assessment is superficial, and your growth projections lack substantiating data.

I expect a revised version on my desk by 8 a.m. tomorrow. Be prepared to walk me through your calculations in detail.

J. Clark

I read it once. Then again. The blood drained from my face, leaving me cold and disorganized.

I gave too much information on this research and he is saying it lacks substantiating data.

He was annoying me. This presentation was my best work. I had spent nights on it, triple-checking every figure, polishing every sentence until it shone. It was my armor, my proof that I belonged here despite everything. And with a few cold, clinical words, he was tearing it to shreds.

This wasn’t feedback. This was a punishment. A deliberate, cruel reminder of my place. He was the king, and I was a subject who had dared to try and leave his court.

Tears of frustration and sheer, gut-wrenching humiliation pricked at my eyes. I blinked them back furiously. I would not cry here. I would not give him, or anyone, the satisfaction.

A dark, rebellious thought whispered in the back of my mind. Let him fire me. Let this be the end. Walk out right now.

But then I thought of my mother’s scream of joy when I told her I got the job. I thought of Lizzy, so proud of me. I thought of the mountain of debt I was finally starting to chip away at. I thought of Dave, and the pathetic, dependent woman I had been with him. This job, this hell, was also my salvation. It was my identity now. The one thing I had built for myself.

Justin Clark had taken enough from me. He had taken my peace of mind, my sense of safety, the sacred memory of my first time. I would not let him take this too.

A strange, cold calm settled over me, taking away the panic. The humiliation began to curdle into something else, a sharp, focused rage.

Fine.

He wanted a flawless presentation? He wanted substantiating data? He wanted to see me squirm as I explained my calculations?

He would get it.

He would get a presentation so goddamn bulletproof, so impeccably researched, and so brilliantly argued that he would have nothing left to critique. I would use my brain, the one thing he couldn’t control, to fight back.

I grabbed my notepad and laptop. The clock on the wall read 5:30 p.m. I had fourteen and a half hours.

“Working late, newbie?” Victor asked, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“Something like that,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady.

Carla gave me a sympathetic look. “Don’t let him get to you. Clark is brutal on everyone at first. It’s his way of testing your gut”

If only she knew. This wasn’t a test of my mettle. This was a personal war.

I gave her a tight smile. “Good to know.”

As they left, the floor quieted, emptying out until it was just me and the hum of the servers. I ordered food I wouldn’t taste and coffee that was just fuel. Then I got to work.

I tore my presentation apart. I went back to the raw data, running new regression analyses, building more complex financial models. I cross-referenced market trends from five different global sources. I found a niche demographic study from a European firm that perfectly supported my growth projections. I cited everything, creating a trail of irrefutable evidence so thick he would need a machete to get through it.

The hours bled together. The city outside my window transformed from a sun-drenched grid into a sprawling tapestry of lights. My back ached, my eyes burned, but I didn’t stop. Every formula I perfected, every source I cited, was a silent screw you to the man in the corner office.

This was no longer about keeping my job. This was about reclaiming my power.

At 7:45 a.m., the final slide was complete. I sat back, my body screaming in protest, and looked at my work. It was more than a revision; it was a masterpiece of financial analysis. It was better than anything I had ever produced. He had demanded excellence, and in my defiance, I had somehow surpassed myself.

I printed two copies, the pages warm in my hands. I smoothed down my blouse, retouched my lipstick in my phone’s camera, and met my own gaze in the reflection. The woman staring back was not the terrified girl from the parking garage. Her eyes were tired, but they held a glint of steel.

I walked to his office, my heels clicking a confident rhythm on the polished floor I no longer felt like I was trespassing on. Eleanor was at her desk.

“Ms. Idia? Mr. Clark isn’t in yet.”

“I know,” I said, placing one bound copy of the presentation neatly on her desk. “He requested this on his desk by 8 a.m. Please see that he gets it. I’ll be in the small conference room down the hall, ready for our meeting whenever he’s available.”

Eleanor’s eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise, but she nodded. “Of course.”

I turned and walked to the conference room, leaving the copy for him like a gauntlet thrown down. I didn’t wait for him to summon me. I didn’t cower at my desk. I had met his impossible demand, and now I was ready.

I took a seat at the table, my back straight, the second copy of the presentation placed squarely in front of me. My heart was still racing, but it was no longer with fear. It was with the fierce, defiant thrill of the battlefield.

Let him come. Let him try to break me now.

The game was indeed on. But I was no longer just a player trying to flee.

I was ready to win.