Friction and Fire

A Dangerous Plan Part 3

The boardroom is a fortress of silence. Even with half the chairs empty and the sun beating down on the glass, the tension could shear steel. Vondrel returns to his seat at the head of the table, the imposter in black—Blakely, she calls herself—settling at the far end. She’s perfectly composed: legs crossed, tablet in hand, gaze flicking between Vondrel and the numbers scrolling overhead. Every so often, she scribbles a note or taps a single finger against her lips. If she’s nervous, she hides it better than most of his C-suite.

The next segment is dry, a parade of legal jargon and risk matrices. Vondrel is aware of every breath in the room, every rustle of paper, every sideways glance aimed at their mysterious new arrival. He tries to focus, to lose himself in the figures, but he can’t help watching Blakely. She’s attentive but disengaged, waiting for something, maybe for him.

The woman in the crimson pantsuit, sensing an opening, pivots toward Blakely. “Since you’re new to the table, perhaps you’d like to share your perspective. What’s your take on our projections?”

Blakely sets her tablet down. “The numbers are adequate, but I’m not convinced the fundamentals support such aggressive expansion,” she says, the accent flawless—somewhere between Zurich and London, crisp enough to chill soup. “If you can’t retain your core staff or maintain quality, there’s no point inflating margins. It’s not sustainable.”

A wave of murmurs. Vondrel feels the floor shift beneath him, a familiar pressure. He studies her, searching for the flaw. The cadence of her speech, the defiance, the way she dares to challenge him in front of his own people—it’s a kind of signature.

He files it away. “I appreciate your candor,” he says, but his tone is neutral, measured. “Perhaps you’d like to elaborate?”

She holds his gaze, just for a second too long. “You have a retention problem. The numbers don’t lie. And you have a culture problem, too—one that no amount of quarterly bonuses will fix.”

He smiles, cold and thin. “You’ve been here less than ten minutes and already diagnosed the company?”

Blakely shrugs. “You hired me for my insight, not my discretion.”

One of the older executives clears his throat, trying to break the current. “Maybe we should table HR for now—”

Vondrel waves him off, never taking his eyes from Blakely. “I’d like to hear more.” He leans forward, fingers steepled. “You said the margins weren’t sustainable. Why?”

She takes a breath, and for a split second, Vondrel sees the mask slip. Beneath the wig, the glasses, the borrowed accent, there’s a pulse of pure, unfiltered Rhonda. He feels it—an electric jolt, a memory of knuckles and laughter and the scent of gasoline.

But she’s too good. The mask holds.

“Your acquisition targets are over-leveraged,” she says, pushing a graph across the table. “You’re betting on a market correction that may not come. If the pipeline doesn’t hold, you’ll be stuck with the debt and none of the upside.”

The board murmurs again, restless. Vondrel’s patience runs thin. He hates being second-guessed, especially by someone he can’t control.

He throws a look down the table, icy as January. “If you’re so certain, why are you here?”

Blakely tilts her head. “To see if the legend matches the reality,” she says, voice soft. “To see if the man who broke my portfolio could impress me in person.”

Vondrel is silent. The insult lands, but he refuses to show it.

Instead, he stands. “If you have a proposal, make it. Otherwise, don’t waste our time.”

She stands, too, not backing down an inch. “My proposal is simple: stop pretending you’re untouchable. Admit you make mistakes. Own it, and you might actually win.”

The room is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes ears ring.

Vondrel’s jaw tightens. He’s done with the charade. “Everyone out,” he says, not raising his voice but leaving no room for debate. “We’ll reconvene in fifteen.”

No one argues. The executives file out, glancing over their shoulders, eager to escape the blast zone.

It’s just the two of them, now.

Rhonda waits until the door closes, then reaches up, slow and deliberate. She slides the glasses off her face, sets them on the table. The wig comes next, peeled away with practiced ease, a waterfall of blonde giving way to the rust-red she was born with.

She stares Vondrel down, unmasked, unafraid.

“Surprised to see me?” she says, voice all her own now.

Vondrel’s heart thuds once, hard, then settles into a dangerous rhythm. “Not as much as you think.”

She grins, all teeth. “Didn’t figure you for the type to fall for a cheap wig.”

He looks her up and down, slow and clinical, then back to her eyes. “I didn’t. I let you in because I wanted to see how far you’d go.”

She snorts, low and mean. “Guess you’re not as sharp as you thought.”

The banter ignites, hotter than before. They circle the table, each step a challenge.

“What’s your angle?” Vondrel asks, voice a whisper now.

“I want the truth,” Rhonda fires back. “I want to know what you’re doing to my sister, to Mark, to everyone who gets in your way.”

He moves closer, invading her space. “That’s rich, coming from someone who broke into my office in drag.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.”

He’s close now, so close they’re sharing air. “You don’t know what I can take,” he says.

Rhonda’s fists clench at her sides, but she doesn’t step back. “You’re scared of losing,” she says, softer. “You’re scared that for once, someone’s going to outmaneuver you.”

He lets that hang. “Maybe I am,” he admits, and the honesty is a weapon in itself. “But I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be,” she whispers.

They’re inches apart now. Her heart is hammering, but she won’t let him see it.

“You want the truth?” Vondrel says, voice barely a breath. “I don’t know what scares me more—losing control, or losing you.”

She’s silent, the words hanging in the space between them. It would be so easy to hit him, to break the tension with violence, but she doesn’t.

Instead, she reaches for the last weapon she has: vulnerability.

“Then stop trying to ruin my life,” she says, voice raw. “Stop trying to own everything and everyone.”

He searches her face, looking for a lie. “I don’t want to ruin you,” he says, and for the first time, she almost believes him.

They stand there, the city spinning outside, both too stubborn to break away.

The room is a powder keg. All it would take is a spark.

The boardroom is still, the only movement the slow, synchronized rise and fall of two stubborn chests. Rhonda holds Vondrel’s gaze, defiant and exposed. Vondrel doesn’t blink, but his pulse is everywhere—in his temples, in his jaw, in the way his hands tremble just enough to rattle the pen on the table.

Then, like a thunderclap, his phone starts vibrating. Once, then again. He ignores it, eyes locked on Rhonda, desperate to not lose the upper hand, to not break the spell. It buzzes a third time, more insistent, and then there’s a sharp knock at the glass.

His assistant appears in the doorway, face pale, shoulders hunched with something heavier than the usual morning chaos. “Sir, you’re needed. Urgently.” She doesn’t look at Rhonda, doesn’t look at anything except the floor.

Vondrel’s jaw flexes. “This isn’t a good—”

“It’s about Mark,” she says, cutting him off.

The entire air in the room is different now. The world shrinks, the city outside forgotten. Even Rhonda loses her defiance, her hands flat on the table, waiting.

“Explain,” Vondrel says, his voice a shade rougher than before.

The assistant glances at Rhonda, then back at Vondrel, measuring how much to say in front of the intruder. “Security flagged his badge. He didn’t check into his office this morning. He missed the call with the Amsterdam desk—completely missed it. That’s never happened.”

Vondrel processes this with visible effort, fighting the urge to snap. “And?”

“No one’s seen him since last night,” the assistant says. “His apartment is locked, no answer to calls, texts, nothing.”

Rhonda is up now, circling the table, all business. “Have you checked hospital logs? Police?”

The assistant shakes her head, not sure how to handle the presence of the woman who just unmasked in front of her. “We’re starting that now. But—” she looks to Vondrel “—you always wanted to know immediately.”

Vondrel’s hands clench. He turns to Rhonda. “You know something?”

“No,” Rhonda says, voice hard. “But you do. So talk.”

It’s not a request. It’s a challenge, the only kind Vondrel responds to.

He rakes a hand through his hair, the first time in months he’s allowed it out of place. “Mark’s been on edge. Pressure at work, family s**t, the wedding. He wouldn’t just vanish. He’s not wired that way.”

Rhonda’s face softens, just a touch. “He could be hiding.”

“Not without telling someone,” Vondrel says, already pulling out his phone and scrolling. “Not unless something scared him enough to make him run.”

Rhonda steps in, right next to him now, reading over his shoulder without invitation. “What about Alicia? Have you called her?”

He shakes his head. “I thought they’d split. The last I heard—” He stops himself, frustration boiling over. “She’s not answering, either.”

A beat. The city beyond the glass is loud with sirens, but the room is silent.

“We need to find them,” Rhonda says, no hesitation.

“We?” Vondrel echoes, as if surprised.

She meets his gaze, unflinching. “I’m not letting anything happen to Alicia. Or to Mark. You can hate me later.”

His lips twitch, half a smirk, half surrender. “Deal.”

Rhonda turns to the assistant. “Check all the hospitals. Use any name they might have. Then start on shelters, police, everything. Got it?”

The assistant nods, startled by the sudden alliance.

Vondrel grabs his suit jacket from the back of his chair, shrugs into it like armor. “We’ll take my car,” he tells Rhonda, who’s already lacing up her boots.

She scoops up her backpack, leaves the wig and glasses on the conference table like a challenge flag, and falls into step beside him. There’s no more arguing, no more power games. Just urgency and the throb of shared mission.

In the hall, the suits part to let them pass. Everyone stares, but neither of them cares.

They hit the elevator together. Rhonda punches the down button so hard she almost cracks the glass.

For the first time all morning, she smiles.

“Let’s go raise some hell,” she says.

And together, they do.