The click of Morgause Tasse’s stilettos echoed like warning shots across the marble floor of Vantage Bank’s downtown branch. Every stride was deliberate, precise, and fueled by double-shot espresso and pure ambition. She passed through the glass doors of the executive suite, her blazer sharp enough to draw blood and her hair twisted into a bun that said, “Don’t waste my time.”
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Senior Loan Officer Morgause Tasse had one goal: assistant manager.
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She didn’t believe in luck. She believed in being better—faster, sharper, more ruthless. And at the top of her hit list was one Demetrios Vasilios, the frustratingly charming, smugly competent financial analyst with a jawline that belonged on a billboard and a habit of spinning his pen like he was casually plotting world domination.
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Today was no different.
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“He’s already in there,” Jazz said as Morgause passed by her desk. Jazz Myers, HR coordinator, part-time chaos connoisseur and Morgause’s best friend, didn’t even look up from her emails.
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“Of course he is. Vultures get up early.”
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Jazz snorted. “He brought coffee. For the whole team.”
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Morgause rolled her eyes but paused. “Not for me?”
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“You insulted his spreadsheets last week. You’re on the blacklist.”
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“His spreadsheets looked like they were designed by a toddler with commitment issues.”
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Jazz gave her a look. “You call it tough love. He calls it a vendetta.”
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With a sigh, Morgause pushed open the conference room door.
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There he was.
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Demetrios Vasilios. Navy-blue suit. No tie, of course. Slightly undone collar. Spinning his pen with one hand, sipping his coffee with the other like he hadn’t spent the last three years trying to sabotage her every career move.
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“Morning, Tasse,” he said smoothly.
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“Vasilios,” she replied, voice like ice.
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He gestured to the empty seat beside him. “I warmed it up for you.”
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She took the seat on the far end instead.
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The presentation started.
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Morgause laid out her pitch for the new small business lending strategy with the crisp confidence of someone who had slept exactly four hours and rehearsed in the mirror while brushing her teeth. Charts. Figures. Clean, impactful delivery. Gideon Roth, the stoic branch manager, nodded slightly—the closest he ever got to enthusiasm.
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Then came Demetrios.
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His presentation was smooth. Casual. Annoyingly effective. He used humor, told a story, even brought in a graphic designer to zhuzh up his visuals. Worse, the room ate it up.
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When the meeting adjourned, Morgause stood before she could get trapped into post-meeting banter.
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“Nice charts,” Demetrios said, following her out.
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“Nice theatrics. I didn’t realize we were presenting at a talent show.”
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He grinned. “You wound me.”
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“Not enough.”
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Jazz intercepted her just outside. “Girl. You looked like you wanted to throw a chair.”
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“I wanted to throw him off the roof.”
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Jazz leaned in. “You know what your problem is?”
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“He exists?”
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“You find him attractive.”
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Morgause blinked. “You need therapy.”
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“I need popcorn. The tension between you two could power the national grid.”
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She walked off before Morgause could lob a stapler at her.
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Gideon Roth, the branch manager, stepped out of his office with the precision of a man who measured his breath.
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“Morning meeting. Conference room. Now,” he said, then disappeared without waiting for confirmation.
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The room buzzed with anticipation. Jazz, already seated near the back, gave Morgause a pointed look and mouthed, Behave. Morgause gave her a tight smile.
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Demetrios slid into the seat next to Morgause without asking. His leg brushed hers. She moved her chair half an inch to the right.
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Gideon stood at the head of the room, hands clasped behind his back. Theo Reyes stood beside him, composed as ever, but there was something...final in his demeanor.
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“As most of you know, Theo will be transitioning to a regional leadership role at the end of the quarter,” Gideon began.
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Murmurs spread.
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“I’ll be transitioning out of this role in the coming weeks,” Theo began, voice steady. “Promotion at corporate. I’ll still be around through the handoff.”
Morgause’s stomach clenched. She stole a glance at Demetrios. He was spinning his pen again—his only tell. That and the subtle tightening of his jaw.
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“It’s a significant step,” Gideon continued. “And it means this branch will soon need a new assistant manager.”
“This means,” Gideon added, his voice like gravel, “the position will be open for internal candidates. I expect an aggressive pitch from each of you. Performance. Leadership. Strategy. You know the game.”
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Demetrios’s eyes flicked to Morgause. She met them without flinching.
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Then came the kicker.
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“To test your capabilities,” Gideon continued, “you’ll be collaborating on the Carmichael portfolio restructure. It’s our biggest private loan suite and needs finesse.”
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Morgause blinked. Collaborating? She’d rather swallow her shoe.
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Demetrios raised an eyebrow. “Together?”
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“Yes,” Gideon said. “Together. Think of it as a real-time case study. Let’s see how well rivals can act like leaders.”
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Back in the hallway, silence hung between them like storm clouds.
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“Try not to slow me down,” Demetrios said finally.
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“Try not to trip on your ego,” Morgause shot back.
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He smirked, leaning a little too close. “Looking forward to our first planning session.”
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“Same,” she said. “Maybe you’ll finally learn something.”
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He walked away, whistling.
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Morgause stood frozen for a beat, then pulled open her drawer and reached for her secret stash of stress-relief candy—only to find it empty.
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Her eyes narrowed.
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Demetrios. Again.
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The war had officially escalated.
She reached her cubicle, opened her drawer, and tapped past her pens until she found the familiar tin. A comforting clink followed as she flipped it open.
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Empty.
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She stared at the mint-green interior in disbelief.
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“Looking for this?” came a smooth voice from behind.
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Morgause turned, slowly. Demetrios Vasilios leaned against her partition, holding up a butterscotch candy between two fingers like it was a rare coin.
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Her eye twitched.
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“That’s theft,” she said flatly.
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“I’d argue it’s evidence,” he replied, spinning the candy once. “Proof you self-medicate with sugar. Weakness, Tasse.”
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“Hardly. It’s a strategic tool. Unlike your personality.”
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He grinned, unbothered. His navy suit was just slightly rumpled in a way that looked intentional. Of course. Everything about Demetrios screamed effortless charm—something that irritated Morgause more than she’d admit.
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“You’re late,” she said, glancing at the clock.
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“I’m on Demetrios Time,” he replied, moving toward his desk. “It runs on results, not minutes.”
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She muttered something under her breath as she shut her drawer.
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“Well,” Demetrios said, leaning toward Morgause, “I hope your stilettos can handle the climb.”
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She didn’t even blink. “Hope your last name can handle your fall.”
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Jazz whistled low from the back.
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Later that afternoon, she caught Demetrios at the copier, staring at a report like it had insulted his mother. His pen spun furiously.
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“You broke the machine with your pen-spinning aura?” she said, arms crossed.
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He didn’t look up. “I didn’t realize I was auditioning for the role of villain in your origin story.”
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She smirked. “You wish you had that kind of narrative power.”
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He finally looked at her then—something flickered across his face, too quick to name.
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“Be honest,” he said, voice low, “you’d be bored without me.”
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Morgause’s heart did something annoying in her chest. She ignored it.
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“I’d be assistant manager without you,” she replied.
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Demetrios smiled, slow and infuriating. “We’ll see.”
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They stood there, locked in silent challenge. Two storms waiting to clash.
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The war was officially on.
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By the time Morgause slipped into her apartment that evening, the city was bathed in golden light, casting long shadows across her minimalist space. She kicked off her heels by the door, letting out a quiet sigh that no one would hear—not that she’d ever let anyone catch her sighing.
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Her apartment was an elegant contrast to the chaos of the office. Clean lines, neutral tones, and everything exactly where it belonged. A single eucalyptus candle flickered on the marble console table near the entrance. She liked routine. Routine meant control. And Morgause Tasse did not do chaos.
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Her phone buzzed.
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Jazz: Do NOT make out with him. I’m serious.
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Morgause rolled her eyes, tossing the phone on the couch. “I don’t even like him,” she said to no one.
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She peeled off her blazer, hung it with care in her walk-in closet, and made her way to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of white wine—one glass, exactly, as always—then padded barefoot across the hardwood floor to her bedroom.
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Once the wine was in hand, she did what she always did after a particularly exhausting day: she opened the drawer of her bedside table, reached beneath a stack of industry magazines, and pulled out a worn notebook.
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The pages were filled with neat, angular handwriting. Plans. Strategies. Occasional vents about Gideon’s poker face or Theo’s diplomacy. A couple of pages were just sharp lines or question marks.
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She flipped to a blank page and wrote:
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Day One: Promotion Watch
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• Theo confirmed.
• Gideon observing.
• Demetrios circling like a shark with a trust fund.
• Must close Johnson deal this week.
• Start mentoring that intern—what’s her name? Sadie?
• Watch Demetrios. Closely.
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She paused.
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And then, against her better judgment, added:
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Also: Do not let him get under my skin.
(Or into anything else.)
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She stared at the sentence, then scribbled it out until the paper dented.
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After a lukewarm shower and a half-hearted attempt at watching a nature documentary, Morgause settled into bed, the city lights winking through her window. She picked up her phone again. No new messages. No missed calls.
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She told herself that was a good thing.
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But still… her mind replayed that moment at the copier. The way his voice dropped. That flicker in his eyes.
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She hated how sharp her memory was when it came to Demetrios Vasilios.
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Morgause rolled over and pulled her comforter up to her chin.
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Tomorrow would be another round in the war. Another perfectly tailored suit. Another tactical smile. Another performance.
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And she’d win. She always did.
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Eventually.
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in the chrome panel. Lipstick: sharp. Ponytail: sleek. Attitude: nuclear.
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By the time she reached the executive floor, the scent of stale printer ink and ambition had already taken root in the air.
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Her desk greeted her with quiet judgment. A dozen emails glared at her from the screen, and the quarterly loan performance sheets lay where she’d left them—taunting her like a poker hand just waiting to be played.
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But first—candy.
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She slid open the bottom drawer of her desk, where a mint tin labeled “Tax Files 2018” sat nestled under a stack of fake reports. Inside, her secret stash: stress-relief candies—lemon honey drops, imported from somewhere she couldn’t pronounce but swore worked better than therapy.
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She popped one in and exhaled.
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Just as she settled into her chair, a voice sliced through the quiet like a blade dipped in silk.
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“Didn’t know your schedule included bonus hours now. New year, new grind?”
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Demetrios Vasilios leaned casually against the glass divider, one eyebrow raised, arms folded across his annoyingly tailored navy suit. His tie was undone just enough to look intentional. Pen already twirling in his fingers.
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Morgause didn’t bother to look at him. “Didn’t know smugness came with free-range access to my cubicle.”
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He smirked. “Relax. I’m just admiring the view.” His eyes swept over her desk. “You know, for someone so organized, you hide your sugar addiction terribly.”
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Her jaw ticked. “Are you still talking?”
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Demetrios grinned and turned to leave. “Don’t let me distract you. I know you need the head start.”
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Morgause threw a candy wrapper at him as he walked away, laughing without looking back.
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**
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In the hallway after the meeting, Jazz appeared at Morgause’s elbow.
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“Well,” she said, “if the sexual tension doesn’t kill one of you, the spreadsheet wars might.”
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“I will not let him ruin this for me,” Morgause snapped, marching toward her office.
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Jazz trotted beside her. “You do realize that collaboration means being in the same room. Often. Alone. Probably arguing.”
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Morgause stopped in front of her door. “Then I’ll keep it professional. I can resist petty urges.”
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“Can you?” Jazz asked, eyebrow raised. “Because last week, you told me you dreamed about smacking his smug face with a stapler. While he was shirtless.”
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Morgause groaned. “You weren’t supposed to remember that.”
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Jazz grinned and waved. “Oh, honey. I remember everything.”
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**
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Back at his desk, Demetrios sat with his head tilted, eyes locked on the Carmichael file. Leif leaned against the doorframe of his office, holding a soda can and a knowing smirk.
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“You and Ice Queen Tasse, huh?” he said. “That’s either going to end in a promotion—or a lawsuit.”
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“Hopefully promotion,” Demetrios muttered, though a tiny smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.
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“She’s intense,” Leif said. “You know that, right? Like… laser beam through concrete intense.”
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Demetrios didn’t answer. He was thinking of the way she’d looked in the meeting, completely composed while everyone else blinked in surprise. How she’d straightened her posture like she was ready to battle—and win.
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Yeah. He knew.
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And honestly?
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He liked it.
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