Chapter 84 - 83 Wearing Defeat
Some people wear their defeats like heavy chains. Others simply trip over them in the middle of a crowded hallway.
Julian drags Chloe away from the elderly janitor with brutal force. His manicured fingers dig deeply into her wrist. Her expensive red dress catches the golden light from the crystal chandeliers overhead. She stumbles clumsily on her high heels, but Julian refuses to slow his pace. They march down the marble corridor. They leave a pathetic trail of spicy cologne and pure desperation in their wake.
A figure steps out from a side lounge and stops directly in their path.
It’s Victor.
Victor Sterling still looks as immaculate as when I saw him earlier. His silver-gray suit contours perfectly to his lean, athletic build. The thin wire-rimmed glasses resting on his sharp nose give him an air of absolute, unbothered intelligence. He assesses Julian’s rumpled burgundy jacket and Chloe’s smeared makeup in one sweeping glance.
Victor steps casually to the side, clearing the walkway. He does not let them leave in silence.
"Leaving the victory party so soon, Julian?" Victor asks. His voice is smooth and entirely mocking. "I hear the valet is taking extra special care with the losers’ vehicles tonight. Do drive safely."
Julian stops walking. His face turns a dark, mottled purple. He drops Chloe’s wrist and points a shaking finger right at Victor’s face.
"You watch your back, Sterling," Julian threatens. His voice is a harsh, ragged rasp. "You have no idea who you are dealing with. I will ruin you."
Victor simply smiles. He does not flinch. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a single finger. Julian realizes his threats are completely useless. He grabs Chloe again and storms toward the elevator banks.
Chloe looks over her shoulder before she turns the corner. Her eyes lock onto mine. The sheer, toxic hatred radiating from her glare is palpable. She probably blames me for her humiliation. She blames me for her own stupidity.
I offer her a wide, cheerful smile. I wave my bandaged hand at her. Our feud is a permanent fixture in my life. I am completely at peace with that reality now. I love watching her fail. And I know that’s not a good thing but I don’t think it’s a bad thing either.
Victor turns his attention away from the retreating couple. He spots a waitress in a crisp black uniform carrying a silver tray.
"Excuse me," Victor says. He stops the waitress. "Could you direct me to Table Number One? I have a private reservation."
"Right this way, President Sterling," the waitress replies politely. She points toward the heavy velvet curtains lining the far wall of the second floor.
Victor pulls his sleek smartphone from his interior jacket pocket. He answers an incoming call. I follow a few paces behind him. I blend quietly into the dark shadows of the flocked silk wallpaper.
"Yes," Victor says into the phone. His usual stoic demeanor cracks. His tone is tight with poorly concealed, massive excitement. "I know. I prepared the entire executive board for a rejection this afternoon. We did not have the manufacturing scale Thorne offered. But Dr. Aris just confirmed it. Dr. Grayson actually chose us."
He runs his free hand through his perfectly styled dark hair. He lets out a sharp breath of disbelief.
"Get the legal department on standby immediately," Victor orders. He resumes walking toward the private booths. "I am meeting the developer right now. We draft the preliminary contracts tonight. Do not let anyone leave the office."
He hangs up the phone. He slides the device back into his pocket. He is absolutely thrilled. He thinks he just won the medical lottery. He is also completely unaware that the developer is currently walking ten feet behind him.
Victor steps through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains. He enters the secluded booth designated as Table Number One.
I do not wait for an invitation. I slide right through the curtains immediately after him.
The private dining space is small and intimate. A polished mahogany table dominates the center of the room. Two plush leather seats face each other. A small overhead lamp illuminates the table surface.
Victor remains standing. He looks at me with complete confusion.
I drop into the leather seat directly across from his designated spot. I cross my legs elegantly. I lean forward and rest my chin on my bandaged hands. I pitch my voice slightly higher than normal. I bat my eyelashes and put on my very best empty-headed performance.
"Hi there," I say. I offer him a giggling, overly sweet smile. "You look incredibly handsome in that silver suit."
Victor freezes. His sharp jaw tightens visibly. He analyzes my appearance with cold precision. He looks at my tailored black blazer. He looks at my polished boots. He stares intently at the thick white medical bandages wrapped around my palms.
He calculates the situation in three seconds flat. He assumes I am a corporate groupie looking for a payout. Or worse, he thinks I am a cheap escort hired by Julian Thorne to trap him in a compromising position before the biggest contract signing of his life.
"Who are you?" Victor demands. His voice is pure, freezing ice. He does not sit down.
"Just an admirer," I purr. I reach across the mahogany table and trace the rim of an empty crystal water glass. "I saw you in the hallway earlier. You handled that angry man so well. Are you a CEO? You definitely look like a powerful CEO."
Victor looks completely and utterly disgusted. The excitement from his phone call vanishes entirely. He views me as a highly annoying pest.
He reaches into his jacket. He pulls out a sleek silver money clip. He peels off a thick stack of green hundred-dollar bills. He slaps the cash directly onto the center of the mahogany table. The crisp paper makes a sharp smacking sound against the wood.
"Take the money and leave," Victor commands. He points toward the velvet curtain. "I have a critical business meeting in exactly two minutes. If you are still sitting in that chair in thirty seconds, I will have the security guards drag you out of this building."
I look down at the pile of cash. Several thousand dollars sit between us.
I need to know exactly how this man handles unpredictable chaos. The Monroe family will throw much worse than a fake flirt at him. They will throw lawsuits, sabotage, and physical threats. If he loses his temper over a minor annoyance in a restaurant, he will crumble under real corporate warfare. I need to push him over the edge.
I pick up the stack of bills. I stand up slowly. I let out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh of disappointment.
"Fine," I say. I drop my high-pitched voice and sound genuinely annoyed. "You do not have to be so incredibly rude about it."
I turn my back to him. I take one deliberate step toward the exit.
Then, I pivot on my heel.
I swing my right arm with every single ounce of strength I possess. I plant my boots firmly on the carpet. My open palm connects directly with his left cheek.
The violent smack echoes like a gunshot in the small, enclosed booth.
The impact stings my own skin fiercely through the white medical tape. A sharp spike of pain shoots straight up my torn shoulder joint. I grit my teeth and hold my ground.
Victor’s head snaps hard to the right. His wire-rimmed glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. He stumbles back half a step. The silver money clip clatters onto the floor.
Complete, suffocating silence fills the private dining room.
I stand perfectly still. I wait for the explosion. I brace my body, fully expecting him to throw a massive punch in retaliation.
Victor slowly turns his head back to face me.
A bright, angry red handprint blossoms rapidly across his pale cheek. His dark eyes are pitch black. The muscles in his neck strain visibly against his crisp white collar. He inhales a slow, deep breath through his nose. His chest expands as he forces oxygen into his lungs.
He grips the edge of the mahogany table. His knuckles turn completely white from the intense pressure. He is suppressing a massive, violent fury. The anger radiates off his body like heat from an open furnace.
He does not raise his hand. He does not scream. He does not take a single aggressive step toward me.
He pushes his glasses back up his nose with a shaking finger. He reaches out toward the wall panel. He presses the small silver call button mounted near the lamp.
"Security to Table Number One," Victor says into the intercom. His voice is perfectly even and remarkably controlled. "We have a hostile trespasser in the booth."
A massive, genuine smile breaks across my face.
He passed the test. He prioritized the crucial business meeting over his own bruised ego. He maintained absolute emotional composure under a sudden physical assault. He refused to compromise his professional standing by hitting a woman in a VIP club. He is exactly the kind of disciplined, strategic monster I need by my side.
I reach into my trouser pocket. I pull out my own smartphone.
Victor watches me with narrow, furious eyes. He assumes I am calling for backup.
I dial Dr. Aris. The line rings twice before he answers.
"Emily," Dr. Aris says. He sounds slightly nervous. "Are you finished with your games?"
"I am," I reply. I keep my eyes completely locked on Victor’s red face. "You can cancel the security request. I am very satisfied with our candidate."
I lower the phone and tap the screen to end the call. I slide it back into my pocket.
Victor stares at me. The icy, controlled fury on his face shatters entirely. Pure, profound confusion replaces it. He looks at my bandaged hands. He looks at my confident smile. He slowly realizes I am not a corporate groupie or a hired distraction.
"Please, President Sterling," I say. I gesture gracefully toward the empty leather seat across from me. "Sit down. We have a medical formula to discuss."