The invitation didn’t leave my mind.
It lingered—not as temptation, but as structure.
Charles hadn’t asked casually. Nothing about him was casual anymore. Not the timing. Not the setting. And certainly not the intent.
“I’ll consider it.”
The words I had given him replayed with quiet precision.
Not a yes.
Not a refusal.
A position.
The office carried the same sharpened edge the rest of the afternoon. Every movement felt documented. Every interaction—observed. Every silence—interpreted.
I stayed at my desk longer than necessary, reviewing documents that no longer required attention. Not because I needed to. Because I was thinking. Strategically.
Dinner with Charles wasn’t about him.
It was about what he believed.
And what he thought I would confirm.
By the time I stood to leave, the
