If I Could Hate You

Chapter 2: Only When They’re Wrong

Michael's POV

I had not planned to come back to New York this week. My meetings in London had been scheduled to run through Friday, and frankly I would have preferred another few days across the Atlantic. London was easier. In London, I knew exactly who my allies were and exactly which people wanted something from me. In New York, the lines blurred. People smiled to your face and sharpened the knives the moment you turned away.

But my father’s voice on the phone yesterday had been enough to make me book the earliest flight out. The launch of the Madison Crown project was too important, he said. Investors would be watching not only the numbers but how the FitzGerald name carried itself. He did not say what I already knew—that he wanted to see if I could stand in his place without letting the foundation he built c***k.

The elevator doors opened and I stepped into a scene that looked like a magazine spread for corporate elegance. Golden lighting, fresh flowers, perfectly aligned seating. Someone had put in serious work. I scanned the room, searching for the person in charge, until my gaze landed on a woman standing near the center.

Sophia Bennett.

I had read her name on the internal memo when she was promoted. Public relations lead, known for being sharp, meticulous, and relentless. I had imagined someone older, someone who had been weathered by years in the trenches of media manipulation. Instead, I saw a woman with eyes like polished amber and the kind of presence that drew attention without her even trying. She was dressed in a tailored black dress that managed to be both professional and dangerously distracting.

I walked toward her, letting my gaze remain steady. “You’re the PR lead?” I asked.

She met my eyes without flinching. “Yes. Sophia Bennett.”

Her voice had a warmth to it, but her posture was all business. I asked for the speech notes, and she tried to tell me they were finalized. That was my first clue. Most people in this building folded when I made a request. She pushed back. Calmly, but firmly.

When she challenged my criticism about the community impact section, I caught myself studying her, not just her words. She was speaking from conviction, not the desire to please me. I was not used to that in this building.

“Are you in the habit of challenging your superiors, Ms. Bennett?” I asked.

Her answer was quick and unflinching. “Only when they’re wrong.”

I almost smiled. Almost. She had nerve, and nerve could either be a liability or an asset, depending on the person. I handed the notes back and told her we would discuss it later, though in truth, I had already decided not to change a single word. Her reasoning had been solid. But it would not have done me any favors to admit that in front of an audience.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of details. I checked with catering, lighting, and the AV team. I spoke to the building’s security chief to ensure no one who should not be here managed to slip in. Every time I glanced across the room, I saw her, moving with quiet precision, adjusting small things no one else would have noticed. A champagne glass shifted two inches to the left. A banner straightened so the light caught it just right. She was not doing it for praise. She was doing it because she wanted this event to be flawless.

When the guests arrived, I stepped into the role expected of me. Smile at the right people. Offer the correct handshake pressure. Speak about projected returns and innovation as though I had not been living on three hours of sleep for the past week.

The moment to give the speech came, and I took the podium. I saw Sophia in the back, arms folded, watching me like she was measuring something. I used her version of the notes, word for word. The applause was strong and genuine, the investors nodding as if we had already exceeded their expectations. When I stepped down, I allowed myself one quick glance in her direction. Her expression was unreadable, but I saw the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth before she turned away.

Later, after the crowd thinned and the last of the photographers packed up, I found myself standing near the balcony doors, looking out over the city. The skyline stretched in every direction, lights glittering like a constellation spread across the ground. I had grown up here, but nights like this still had the power to remind me why my family fought so hard to hold our place.

“You do not like the champagne,” a voice said behind me.

I turned to find Sophia holding a half-empty flute of her own, eyebrow slightly raised.

“I prefer whiskey,” I said.

“That fits,” she replied.

“Does it now?”

“You strike me as the type who wants something strong, no frills, no sweet aftertaste.”

I studied her for a moment. “You have me figured out after what, five minutes of conversation?”

“More like thirty,” she said, sipping her drink. “And I never claimed to have you figured out. I just know the type.”

“And what type is that?”

“The kind who expects people to fall in line without question. The kind who finds it inconvenient when someone tells you there might be a better way.”

She was not smiling. She was simply stating a fact, and it should have annoyed me. Instead, I found myself curious. “And do you think you are that someone?”

“Maybe,” she said. “If I see a reason to be.”

We stood there for a moment, the hum of conversation behind us, the city spread out below. I could have dismissed her, could have walked away with some cutting remark to remind her who had the final say here. Instead, I found myself wondering what would happen if I kept this conversation going.

That was dangerous.

I had learned early in my career that proximity bred complication. My father had a strict rule about office relationships, and I had no intention of breaking it. The FitzGerald name was already whispered about enough without giving the tabloids an easy headline. Sophia Bennett might be smart, talented, and striking enough to hold my attention, but she was also a variable I did not need.

So I finished my champagne in a single swallow and set the glass on the railing. “Good work tonight,” I said, keeping my tone neutral. “We will review next week’s investor brief in the morning.”

She nodded, not looking disappointed, not looking pleased either. “Understood.”

I walked away before I could say something I might regret.

But later, lying in my apartment with the city lights spilling across the ceiling, I found my mind returning to her voice, the way she had said only when they are wrong. Most people around me had stopped telling me I was wrong years ago.

And damn it, I was not sure I liked how much I wanted to hear her say it again.