NOT LETTING GO

The conference room on the forty-seventh floor smelled like burnt coffee and ambition. Jas leaned forward, elbows on the glass table, a laser pointer dangling from her fingers like a cigarette. The quarterly projections glowed on the wall behind her—steep green arrows climbing toward aggressive targets her competitors had called "unrealistic" and she had called "Tuesday." "So let me get this straight." She fixed her gaze on Martin Yee, the squirrelly VP from Mergers, who had spent the last twenty minutes explaining why they couldn't. "You want me to tell the board we're walking away from the Calloway acquisition because—" She glanced at her notes with theatrical confusion. "—the math is scary?" Scattered laughter rippled through the twelve faces around the table. Martin's cheeks went splotchy. "I'm saying the debt load—" "The debt load is manageable" Jas clicked the laser off and tossed it onto the table with a clatter. "Calloway's infrastructure alone is worth twice what we're offering. Their management is dogshit, which means we install our people, streamline operations, and print money for the next decade. This isn't scary math, Martin. It's second-grade subtraction." More laughter. Warmer this time. She felt the room tilt toward her, that invisible gravity shift she'd spent eight years learning to weaponize. The Jas Mathis effect—sharp enough to cut, playful enough to make you grateful for the wound. She caught her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window: tailored charcoal blazer, hair pulled back in a low twist, the ghost of a smirk on her lips. Thirty-four years old. Managing Director. The youngest woman to ever hold the title at Blackthorn Capital. And underneath all of it, an exhaustion so bone-deep she'd forgotten what it felt like to breathe without effort. Mommy, you forgot to kiss Mr. Buttons. The thought surfaced unbidden — Aanya's voice, small and indignant, from this morning's FaceTime call. Jas had been halfway out the door when her daughter's face appeared on the tablet, clutching that mangy stuffed rabbit with the missing ear. Mr. Buttons says you don't love him anymore. Tell Mr. Buttons he's a dramatic little s**t and I'll kiss him twice tonight. Her mother had gasped in the background. Aanya had giggled like it was the funniest thing she'd ever heard. Jas blinked hard and shoved the memory back into its designated compartment. Work mode. Focus mode. The version of herself that didn't have a seven-year-old daughter with grey eyes that matched— "Jas." Her assistant Karen's voice cut through from the doorway. Unusual. Karen never interrupted meetings unless something was actively burning. "What?" "Security just called up. There's a... situation in the lobby." Jas's brow furrowed. "What kind of situation?" "A visitor. They wouldn't give a name, but—" Karen's face did something complicated. "They said to tell you Volkov and Associates is here." The room temperature dropped fifteen degrees. Or maybe that was just her blood. Jas's fingers found the edge of the table and gripped. Hard. The lacquered wood bit into her palms. She was aware, distantly, of her team exchanging glances, of Martin frowning at the name like he was trying to place it. Volkov and Associates. A shell company. A ghost. A name she hadn't heard spoken aloud in seven years, except in the quietest hours of the night when she woke up reaching for someone who wasn't there. "Jas?" Karen prompted. "Should I have building security—" "No." The word came out too fast. Too sharp. She forced her shoulders down, her voice level. "No. Escort them up. The Madison conference room." "The Madison? That's the executive—" "I know what it is, Karen." Karen hesitated for half a beat, then nodded and disappeared. Jas turned back to her team. Twelve faces. Twelve careers she'd mentored and bullied and championed into existence. They were looking at her like she'd just sprouted a second head. "The meeting's over," she said. "Martin, the Calloway numbers on my desk by the end of the day. Everyone else, clear my afternoon." She didn't wait for responses. She was already moving, heels clicking against polished concrete, her reflection a smear of motion in the glass walls as she strode toward the elevator bank. Volkov and Associates. She'd known this day would come. Had prepared for it the way coastal cities prepare for earthquakes—reinforcing foundations, stockpiling resources, praying to gods she didn't believe in, that the fault line would hold. But fault lines never hold. They only wait. ---