Boardroom rules

Prologue

Damien

The Hale Dynamics boardroom was designed to intimidate.

Fifty stories up. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Manhattan stretched out behind me like something I owned. And in a way, I did.

Glass walls for a reason: Power liked to be seen. And I liked watching people realize they were already trapped behind it.

Tonight's problem was sitting at the other end of a 20-foot marble table.

Maya Chen.

Twenty-eight. No wedding ring. No fear. She'd been in my building for twenty-one days, sleeping in her office half of them, trying to keep Chen Analytics from bleeding out after a hostile bid I hadn't even officially launched yet.

She wore black. Always black. Blazer, pencil skirt, heels that clicked like a countdown. Her hair was pulled back tight, like she was afraid if she let it down, something in her would too.

She didn't look tired. She looked furious.

That was new. Most people who came into this room looked broken by minute three.

"Mr. Hale." Her voice didn't shake. "Thank you for seeing me."

I didn't answer. I let the silence stretch. That was another rule: Whoever speaks first, loses.

She didn't take the bait. She opened a folder instead and slid it across the table. It stopped exactly halfway between us.

"You don't want Chen Analytics," she said. "You want the government contract attached to it. The one your board can't bid on directly for another eight months."

I looked at the folder. Then at her.

"You've been doing your homework."

"I've been doing yours too." She leaned forward, elbows on the table. A breach of protocol. My CFO actually winced. "Your Q3 projections tank without that contract. You need us intact. Not dismantled."

Clever.

Most people came in here to beg. She came in to negotiate.

I finally took the folder. Didn't open it. "And if I don't care about Q3?"

"Then you care about wasting money." Her eyes were dark brown. Almost black under this light. "Because gutting us costs more than keeping us. And you hate waste, Mr. Hale."

She'd read the Forbes profile. The one where I said inefficiency was a moral failing.

Irritating.

I set the folder down. "You think you can outplay me, Ms. Chen?"

"I think," she said, and her mouth did something that wasn't quite a smile, "that you haven't met anyone who isn't scared of you yet."

The room went quiet.

My CFO cleared his throat. Legal looked at his laptop. No one else breathed.

That's when I knew.

I wasn't going to buy Chen Analytics to strip it. I was going to buy it to see what happened when I put my hands around something that didn't break.

Dangerous.

"Leave us," I said, without looking away from her.

Chairs scraped. Doors closed. In thirty seconds it was just me, her, and the storm starting to hit the glass.

Rain lashed Manhattan. Lightning lit her face for half a second.

"You're bluffing," she said, once we were alone.

"About what?"

"About not needing us."

I stood. Walked to the window. Hands in my pockets. The city was a mess of lights and water below us. "Do you know what I do when someone tells me no?"

"I imagine it involves lawyers."

"It involves winning." I turned. "I take what I want, Ms. Chen. And right now, I want your company."

Her jaw tightened. Good. "You can't have it."

"I can have anything." I took a step toward the table. Then another. "The question is whether you'll still be standing when I'm done."

She didn't retreat. She matched me. Stood too. We were separated by marble and ten feet of air that felt too small.

"You think intimidation works on me?" she asked. "I grew up with a father who lost everything twice. I've been fighting since I was twelve."

"Then you should know when you've lost."

"I haven't."

Lightning again. Thunder rolled through the glass.

She was close enough now that I could smell her. Something clean. Citrus. No perfume. Like she didn't have time for it.

My tie felt too tight. I loosened it one notch. She watched me do it.

Mistake.

Because her eyes dropped. Just for a second. To my collar. To my throat.

And came back up.

She wasn't immune. She was just better at hiding it.

"Rule #1 in my boardroom," I said, voice lower now. "Never want what you're supposed to destroy."

"Is that a rule you follow?"

"No."

The word hung there.

Rain hit harder. The lights in the building across from us flickered.

She should have left. She didn't.

"You're going to regret this," she said. But it didn't sound like a threat. It sounded like a warning. To herself.

"Probably." I was close enough to see the pulse in her throat now. Fast. "But not for the reason you think."

She didn't ask what I meant.

Smart girl.

Instead she picked up her folder. "I'll have revised terms to you by morning."

"Don't."

Her hand stopped on the leather. "Excuse me?"

"Don't go." Two words. Stupid words. Boardroom words don't work in rooms like this, with storms like this.

She looked up at me. Really looked. And for the first time, the mask slipped.

Tired. Angry. Wired. Wanting.

She wanted to win. She wanted to fight. And God help me, she wanted me to be the one she fought with.

I saw it. She knew I saw it.

Neither of us moved.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen.

The building shook with thunder.

"Mr. Hale—"

"Damien."

She flinched. "That's not—"

"Appropriate?" I finished. "No." I was close now. Close enough that if she breathed in, she'd touch my chest. "Neither is this."

My hand came up. Not to touch her. To brace on the table beside her hip. Caging her in without touching.

She didn't step back.

"Walk out that door, Maya," I said. Her name felt illegal in my mouth. "Right now. Because if you don't, I'm going to forget every rule I have."

Her lips parted. "And if I stay?"

I should have answered with strategy. With leverage. With something cold.

Instead I told the truth.

"Then I'm going to find out what you sound like when you stop being my opponent."

The air between us went electric.

She stared at me. I stared back.

The storm broke against the glass.

And she didn't move toward the door.

Rule #1 of the boardroom: Never want what you're supposed to destroy.

I broke it.