The second I walked back into the room, I knew I was back at square one. Whatever ground I thought I'd gained yesterday? Gone.
Lamija didn't even glance at me. She flipped a page in her folder with the kind of casual precision a surgeon might use to choose their next tool—calm, deliberate, and just a little terrifying. Her elbow rested on the polished glass table, head tilted, hand cradling her cheek like this was a coffee break, not the continuation of a slow execution.
Emir sat beside me, tablet open but screen dark. He wasn't even pretending to be engaged anymore. No fake tapping. No sympathetic glances. Just leaned back in his chair, perfectly still, like a man watching a lion circle a wounded deer.
Which meant he was letting me take the full brunt of what was coming.
Again.
I'd spent the last twenty minutes getting dragged across the glass by Lamija while he sat there saying nothing. And now I was back, report in hand, walking straight into the same bloodbath—and he still wasn't lifting a finger.
Not to redirect. Not to soften the edge. Not even to clear his throat.
Maybe he thought this was good for me. A rite of passage. Trial by fire, Begović-style. Or maybe it was easier to sit back and play Switzerland—neutral, silent, and out of the blast radius.
I shouldn't have expected backup. But still—some part of me had hoped he'd intervene. Even just to break the silence. Give me half a second to breathe.
But no.
He sat there with that quiet smirk like this was some kind of experiment and I was the lab rat overheating under pressure
Fine.
I shut the door behind me, the printed report still warm from the machine, and crossed to the head of the table. I placed it down with a calm I didn't feel.
Lamija finally looked up—slowly, like she was bored of waiting but amused I'd bothered to return.
"That took a while," she said, voice silk over steel.
"Printer jammed," I replied, keeping my tone flat.
Her smile curved—not friendly. Almost entertained. "Of course it did."
She didn't say anything else. Just let the silence hang, let me stew in it.
I didn't rise to it.
I didn't have the luxury.
"Page twelve references the March shipment forecast," I said, flipping the packet open and marking the section. "We adjusted unit flow projections after factoring in the Ploče bottleneck. Clearance came through two weeks early."
Her legs crossed slowly beneath the table, one heel dangling like a blade balanced on a thread.
"You adjusted them using what—baseline ratios from last quarter?"
I hesitated. "The same framework we used under Imran."
"Mhm," she said, almost purring. "You know that framework was deprecated three weeks ago, right?"
"I didn't have access to the revised model," I said tightly. "The systems patch locked the comparative analytics, and—"
"And you didn't ask," she cut in, eyes narrowing.
I held her gaze. "I used what I had."
"Convenient," she said. The word snapped through the air like a slap.
I bit the inside of my cheek. "It produced a valid projection."
"For the wrong pipeline," she said flatly.
I saw it hit her—some tiny flicker of disdain curling at the corner of her mouth.
"You're prepping reports for a client meeting tomorrow," she said, not looking up. "Not a school project. These numbers go to executives who sign million-mark contracts. And you handed me a forecast built on a skeleton model last updated during Q1 bottlenecks."
I clenched my jaw.
"Emir, thoughts?" she added.
Emir finally looked up. "To be fair, Lamija, the updated model only became functional late Friday. The data team's been slow on permissions."
She still didn't look at him. "Then escalate it. Or build your own. We're not running a daycare. I don't need another polished report with the structural integrity of a wet napkin."
That hit harder than it should've.
Because she wasn't wrong.
I'd used the old structure because I knew it inside out. Imran's team had leaned on it for two fiscal years—efficient, familiar, fast. It worked. Usually. But this wasn't "usually" anymore. Not with her.
Still, I bristled. "The math holds. It's not guesswork."
"No," she agreed, finally meeting my eyes. "It's laziness."
My hands curled around the edge of the folder.
"I was under a deadline—"
"We're all under deadlines." Her voice didn't rise. It sharpened. "And if your answer to pressure is to cut corners and hope I don't notice, you're not ready to sit at this table."
"I didn't cut corners."
She cocked her head. "Didn't you?"
Silence.
"I asked for a forecast based on updated traffic flow, port clearance, and revised carrier rates. You gave me recycled logic dressed up with new numbers."
"It's what Imran's team—"
"I'm not Imran," she said, cutting me off again. "And we don't do smoke-and-mirror modeling here. If you want to build something, start with the right foundation. Don't slap a fresh coat of paint on the same broken frame."
"I didn't volunteer to be part of your circus," I said before I could stop myself.
That got her attention.
Lamija straightened slightly, the gleam in her eyes sharpening like glass in sunlight.
"My circus?" she echoed, voice deceptively calm.
I didn't answer. The words were already out. No taking them back.
She stood—slow and measured—and walked around the table, her heels tapping like a countdown. One hand slid along the edge of the glass, fingers trailing over the surface with the same lazy control she used on people.
"Interesting," she said softly. "Because from where I'm standing, you're not just part of the circus, Ayub."
She stopped across from me.
"You're the clown juggling the knives."
My pulse kicked hard in my throat. I let the silence sit for a beat, then looked her dead in the eye.
"At least the clown knows how to keep the act alive," I said. "You just set things on fire and call it leadership."
Emir shifted slightly beside me—just enough to remind us he was still in the room. Just enough to warn me I was pushing too far.
Lamija's smile widened. Not kind. Not even smug.
"You used an outdated model to prep for a high-level client review. Then you defended it. Loudly. Arrogantly. And now you think I'm the problem?"
I said nothing. My jaw was tight.
"You don't like the fire?" she asked.
"I like doing my job without the spotlight. Without the drama. Without someone breathing down my neck trying to turn every update into a power play."
"Poor thing," she said, mock sympathy softening her tone but not her eyes. "Was it easier when Imran let you work in the dark?"
"At least he trusted me to deliver."
"No," she said—sharper now, no silk left. "He trusted you to hide."
The words hit. Clean. Precise. Right in the ribs.
And she didn't let up.
"You'll present for the client tomorrow," she said, steady and sure. "Because whether you like the circus or not, I'm the ringmaster—and you're on when I say so."
"Get someone who actually gives a damn about being seen," I snapped. "The office is full of them."
She rounded the edge of the table, unbothered. "Oh, I do want someone who gives a damn. I want the person who solved the bottleneck at Ploče without any senior clearance. Who mapped two alternate flow routes and rerouted warehouse output like it was nothing. I want you Ayub. You're brilliant."
"Then let me do the work," I shot back. "Let someone else give the TED Talk."
She stepped closer. "There is no someone else. You did the work. You'll present it. Full stop."
I crossed my arms. "Why does it matter who speaks if the numbers are clean?"
"Because clean numbers don't build trust, Ayub. People do. Teams follow the voice behind the strategy. If all they see is the work and never hear the spine behind it?" She tilted her head. "Then you're just another ghost behind a spreadsheet."
There was a pause.
Then Emir, now of all times, found his voice.
"Lamija—it's his first week," he said carefully. "Maybe give him some time. Let him settle in."
She didn't look at him.
"He's been with this company longer than you have, Emir," she said. "He started the same day I did. Same day Imran did. We're running whole divisions—and he's still hiding."
She turned her eyes back to me.
"Ayub doesn't have that luxury anymore. He's not behind closed doors. He's not vetting other people's work. He's setting direction. His voice matters."
I scoffed under my breath, but I didn't argue.
Because she wasn't wrong.
And that made it worse.
"Do you know how many senior staff meetings you've skipped in the past six months?"
"I was on assignment—"
"You were hidden," she said. "By Imran. By yourself. You've spent so long whispering behind glass that now you flinch when it shatters."
I felt the heat crawl up my neck. She was pushing me. Hard.
"I've never flinched from a damn thing."
Her eyes lit up.
She looked thrilled.
"There he is," she murmured.
"Prove it. Tomorrow. No help. No slides. You own the projection. You lead the meeting."
She took one step closer.
"You're not invisible here, Ayub. Not anymore. You're at my table now. That means you don't get to shut down or shut up every time I raise the heat. You either learn to handle me, or you get the hell out of my way."
"Handle the work," I corrected.
"No," she said, flipping her folder closed with a snap. "Me. Because that's what this is, Ayub. You want to lead under me? Then manage me. Make me listen. Get your voice in the room without waiting for Imran to drag it in."
I stared at her, furious, frustrated—and worse—interested. Not in the way she wanted. In the way that made my blood feel like smoke and my bones like matchsticks.
"Send me your final projections before end of day," she said, returning to her seat. "No slides. No ghost notes. You speak to the staff tomorrow. If you crash, you crash alone."
"Fine."
"Good," she said. "I like the edge. Don't lose it."
I stayed where I was for one second longer. My chest was tight. My jaw ached from how hard I'd been clenching it.
At the door, I paused.
Turned back.
"You enjoy making people sweat?"
She looked up, lips twitching. "Only when they look good doing it."
I walked out before I could say something stupid.
My palms were still hot.
And I didn't know if I wanted to fight her—or fall to my knees.
And she knew.