Of Fire and Loss

Chapter 8: The Game of Reflections 2

Angèle

I look up, displaying polite weariness.

— I'm working, Rabis.

He sits down without invitation, pushing the plate to the other side of the table. His gaze sweeps over my outfit, lingering on the line of my leg, on the unbuttoned button of my blouse.

— Father's secret project? he whispers, leaning in. He's making you think you're special. But you're just a new toy. He'll get bored eventually.

I put down my fork, holding his gaze. I let a little defiance ignite in my eyes.

— And you, Rabis? Do you collect toys? Or do you just break them to pass the time?

He smiles, a real smile, wild and authentic. I've just spoken to him as an equal, challenging him. That's what he wants.

— Me, I prefer games where everyone participates. Especially the most… interesting ones.

His hand, under the table, brushes my ankle. The contact is burning, intrusive. I don't pull back. I don't smile. I hold his gaze, allowing this contact to exist for three endless seconds, giving him the hope that I accept his advances.

Then, with a sharp movement, I pull my leg away.

— I don't have time for childish games. I have an empire to help build.

I stand up, gathering my tablet. I leave him planted there, desire and frustration clearly readable on his face. I've shown him I'm not intimidated. That I can be touched, but not possessed. For him, I'm the challenge to be met, the conquest that eludes him.

—

6:45 PM. End of day.

Néron appears at the door of my small office. The open space is almost empty again.

— Progress on the shareholder list? he asks.

— Yes. I've identified three priority targets. I can brief you tomorrow morning.

— Now, he says. In my office.

He doesn't wait for an answer. I follow him.

Once inside the sanctuary, he doesn't sit. He stations himself near the window, contemplating the night.

— Rabis spoke to you today.

It's not a question.

— Yes. At lunch.

— And?

I choose my words carefully. I must sow discord, not mistrust towards me.

— He tried to discourage me. To underestimate me. He seemed… jealous. Of your attention.

Néron turns. His face is in shadow.

— Jealousy is a weakness. It blinds.

— Yes, sir.

He approaches. The darkness makes him more imposing, more spectral.

— You reacted well. You didn't let yourself be intimidated. You stood up to him.

He's very close now. I can feel the warmth of his body.

— It's important to me, Angèle. To know that you are… strong.

His hand rises, not to touch my hair this time, but to brush my cheek. The gesture is incredibly possessive. It's the gesture of a man caressing a precious belonging, a work of art he's just acquired.

I don't recoil. I close my eyes for a second, letting out a breath, feigning an emotion I don't feel. A betrayal of my own body in the service of revenge.

— I am, I whisper.

When I open my eyes again, his gaze has changed. The coldness has given way to something darker, more primal. The predator has spotted prey that doesn't flee, and it awakens a new curiosity in him.

— Leave, Angèle, he says, his voice strangely hoarse. Before I decide to keep you.

I nod, turning on my heel. I leave the office, my heart pounding, not from excitement, but from icy triumph.

In the descending elevator, I look at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back at me is a decoy, a perfectly constructed mirage. I lit a fuse with the father by playing the strong, desirable confidante. I fanned the flames with the son by playing the defiant prey.

They think they desire me. One for my coldness, the other for my fire.

But they only desire the reflection I hold out to them.

And while they fight over this ghost, I will dismantle their world, stone by stone. The game is dangerous. One poorly controlled spark and everything can burn.

But tonight, for the first time since my father's death, I feel alive. Because I have become the fire myself.