Lena’s POV
The conference room is a war zone, and I’m bleeding out. Crumpled Post-its litter the table like shrapnel, half-empty coffee cups sweat rings into the mahogany, and two laptops glare at each other like rival tanks. Sienna sits across from me, legs crossed so high her red soles flash like blood under the table, her birthday roses now perched in a crystal vase on the windowsill, each petal a smug little f**k you aimed straight at my chest. The scent of them, sweet, cloying, and expensive, crawls up my nose and claws at my throat, mixing with the stale bitterness of cold brew and the metallic taste of my own rage. We’ve been locked in this glass box for two hours straight, and the only thing we’ve managed to agree on is that we disagree to agree.
“Sustainability is boring. I said
