Dylan adjusted his collar as he stepped into the office Zara had assigned him.
Glass-walled. Minimal. Exposed.
Directly across from hers.
No blinds. No doors. No chance at dignity.
He dropped his laptop bag on the desk with a sigh and looked up—only to meet her gaze through the transparent partition. Zara didn't blink. She sipped her Americano, lowered her cup, and turned back to her screen like he wasn't even there.
He couldn't tell if she was ignoring him or watching him on a delay. Either way, it was working.
A light knock interrupted his internal crisis. Zara's assistant, Lily, peeked her head in, holding a slim folder and a coffee cup.
"Good morning, Mr. Reid. Miss Hartley said to welcome you personally."
"Generous of her."
"She also said… if you need paperclips, you're welcome to ask—very humbly."
Dylan blinked. "You're joking."
"She rarely jokes. She weaponizes sarcasm."
Lily handed over the folder and set the coffee down. "She also prepared a few starting tasks. And your coffee."
He flipped open the folder.
Tasks for Dylan Reid
1\. Fix the investor pitch you bombed last quarter.
2\. Attend Hartley's branding seminar—front row. No shortcuts.
3\. Coffee: oat milk only, one sugar. You'll know why soon.
4\. Don't breathe near my dog.
He looked up. "Is this corporate hazing?"
Lily grinned. "This is her being polite."
Zara's silhouette passed the glass again. Without turning, she tapped once on the glass wall. A silent message.
I see you.
\---
Later that morning, Dylan stepped into a high-ceilinged room where Zara stood mid-presentation, commanding the space like it owed her rent.
"As we were saying," she addressed a room filled with eager employees and over-caffeinated interns, "branding isn't just about aesthetics. It's about memory. Identity. Power."
Her voice sliced through the air like a designer blade.
"Some people mistake noise for strategy. We don't. Here, we build storms that sell."
Her eyes swept the room—and landed briefly on him.
He folded his arms.
Was that aimed at me?
A timid intern raised her hand. "Miss Hartley, how do you handle clients or… ex-colleagues who underestimate your position?"
Zara didn't miss a beat.
"I give them a front-row seat to their own irrelevance."
A pause.
Then the intern whispered, awestruck, "Iconic."
Dylan tried not to roll his eyes.
\---
Back in his office—his fishbowl—he sank into the chair with a groan. The coffee sat untouched on the desk. He took one sip and winced.
Almond milk.
Zara's voice echoed in his mind. Oat milk only.
As if on cue, she passed his glass wall again.
Paused.
Tapped once.
Then mouthed: "Wrong milk."
She walked away without waiting for his reaction.
He glared at the coffee like it betrayed him. Which, in a way, it had.
And so had she. Just... with flair.
***
Zara didn't look up when Dylan entered the strategy suite.
The room was all matte black surfaces, velvet chairs, and high ceilings. No distractions. No escape.
She stood by the whiteboard, sketching timelines in elegant strokes, her posture razor-straight, her heels clicking faintly on the polished floor with each step she took.
"You're late," she said without turning.
Dylan checked his watch. "I'm two minutes early."
She uncapped a red marker. "You were supposed to be here five minutes ago."
He walked in, jaw clenched. "Am I being micromanaged or psychologically dismantled?"
"Would it matter if I said both?"
Finally, she faced him.
Zara didn't wear anger. She wore control—like a signature scent. It wrapped around her voice, her expression, her movements. She gestured to the seat across from her without sitting herself.
"Let's talk about the pitch deck. I saw your last investor rollout. It was… idealistic."
"That's generous," Dylan muttered.
"No, Dylan. It was pathetic." She said it calmly, without venom. Just facts.
He exhaled. "Look, I didn't come here to be insulted."
"Good. I don't insult. I diagnose."
A moment passed.
He leaned forward. "You know, you could at least pretend to be a little less cold. We're still married, Zara."
She tilted her head, amused. "You made it clear that our marriage meant nothing to you. You don't get to cash in on it now just because your company's circling the drain."
Dylan went quiet.
She dropped the marker and finally sat, legs crossed, eyes level with his. "This deal is business. I agreed to it because I like watching you sweat, and because Hartley Studios could use the optics."
He laughed once—dry, disbelieving. "You're unbelievable."
"And yet, here you are."
He met her gaze, something sharp flickering behind his eyes. "Do you really think I'm still the same man?"
Zara paused.
"No," she said. "I think you're worse."
The air hung still between them.
Then, unexpectedly, she leaned forward.
"But… I also think men under pressure show their truth. So I want to see yours. Consider this partnership your redemption arc."
He blinked. "What makes you think I'm looking for redemption?"
She smiled faintly.
"Because if you weren't, you wouldn't have come here alone."
A long, weighted silence.
Then she stood again, brushing past him.
"Meeting adjourned. You'll get your revised pitch packet by noon. Try not to embarrass us."
He remained seated, stunned for a beat too long, before muttering under his breath, "This is going to kill me."
She was already halfway to the door.
Without looking back, she replied, "You'd have to matter to me first."
\*Click.\*
Door closed.
Silence.
And the sound of a man realizing he just walked into the most elegant war of his life.