Pregnant Woman's Revenge

The elevator ride to the forty-fifth floor was silent, a pressurized ascent that popped my ears and settled the nausea low in my stomach. When the doors slid open, Maxwell Lewis’s office stretched out before me—a cavern of steel, glass, and aggressive minimalism. It smelled of leather and ozone, the scent of decisions that moved markets.

I didn't wait for an invitation. I marched to his desk, a slab of black marble that cost more than my student loans, and plugged the drive into his terminal.

"The 'Dummy Data' folder," I said, navigating the trackpad with steady fingers. "Open the spreadsheet marked 'Q3_Real vs Projected'."

Maxwell didn't look at the screen immediately. He looked at me. He was dissecting me, peeling back the layers of cheap fabric and exhaustion to see if I was wasting his time. Then, he turned his gaze to the monitor.

"Customer Acquisition Cost?" he barked, not scrolling down to check.

"Three hundred twelve dollars," I answered instantly. "Kian reports forty-two to the board."

"Monthly recurring revenue?"

"One point two million. But sixty percent of that is churned within the first thirty days. He’s counting free trials as paid subscriptions."

"Burn rate?"

"Four hundred thousand a month. He's leasing server space he doesn't use to make the infrastructure look massive."

Maxwell stopped. The room went dead silent, save for the hum of the server rack in the corner. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. The cold indifference in his eyes had thawed into something sharper—predatory interest.

"You didn't just steal this data, Ms. Martin," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "You understand it. You didn't just debug his code; you built his business model."

"I built him," I corrected, the bitterness coating my tongue like ash. "And now I'm going to deconstruct him."

Maxwell opened a drawer and pulled out a checkbook. "Two million dollars. For the drive and a non-disclosure agreement. You walk away, and I handle the rest."

Two million. It was enough to raise my child in comfort. Enough to disappear. But the image of Kian laughing in the Hamptons, dismissing me as "unstable," flashed behind my eyes. Money wouldn't fix the hole in my chest. Justice would.

"No," I said.

Maxwell’s eyebrow arched. "No?"

"I don't want a payout. I want a position. VP of Strategy. I want to lead the hostile takeover of StreamLine. I want to be in the room when he realizes he's lost."

Maxwell studied me for a long moment, the air between us crackling with tension. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched—a ghost of a smile. "Corporate warfare is bloody, Emilia. It requires a stomach for cruelty."

"Try me."

He pressed a button on his intercom. "David, bring up a standard employment contract. Executive level."

Ten minutes later, the ink was wet on the page. I watched my signature bind me to the devil, and for the first time in days, I felt a grim satisfaction. I stood up to shake his hand, but the sudden movement was a mistake. The floor pitched sideways. The black marble desk blurred into a smear of darkness. My knees buckled.

I braced for the impact of the hard floor, but it never came.

Firm hands gripped my waist and shoulders, arresting my fall with surprising gentleness. The scent of sandalwood filled my nose, overriding the sterile office air. I blinked, finding myself chest-to-chest with Maxwell Lewis. His heart beat steadily against my ear, a slow, heavy rhythm.

"Easy," he murmured. The command in his voice was gone, replaced by a rough concern. He maneuvered me into one of the guest chairs. His hand lingered on my shoulder for a fraction of a second too long before he pulled away, his mask of indifference slipping.

"When was the last time you ate?" he asked, his eyes scanning my pale face.

"Yesterday," I whispered, the room still spinning slightly. "I had to... prioritize funds."

Maxwell’s jaw tightened. He hit the intercom again, his voice clipping with suppressed anger. "Get lunch in here. Steak, medium-rare. Spinach. Roasted potatoes. And water. Now."

He looked at me, adjusting his cuffs, the cold billionaire returning, but the temperature in the room had shifted. "You are a primary asset of this firm now, Ms. Martin. I don't let my assets depreciate."

***

Three days later, I didn't recognize the woman in the mirror. The oversized thrift store coat was gone, replaced by a tailored white power suit that fit like a second skin. The fabric was crisp, the lines sharp enough to cut. It wasn't fashion; it was armor.

Maxwell stood beside me at the entrance of the Metrotech Gala, adjusting his cufflinks. "Head up," he said quietly. "You belong here more than half the people in this room."

We walked in. The hum of conversation died down as eyes turned toward Maxwell, then drifted to me. I felt the weight of their curiosity, but the suit held me together.

And then I saw him.

Kian was holding court near the bar, Bailee Hunter looking bored by his side. He was gesturing wildly, talking about "paradigm shifts." When he saw Maxwell, his smile faltered. When he saw me, it vanished.

He excused himself and beelined toward us, his eyes darting between me and Maxwell. He looked like a man trying to solve an equation that didn't balance.

"Emilia?" He laughed nervously, a sound that lacked all his usual confidence. "What... how did you get in? Did you sneak past security again?"

He reached out as if to guide me toward the exit, his hand aiming for my elbow—the same way he had dismissed me in the Hamptons.

I didn't flinch. I didn't have to.

Maxwell stepped forward, placing his body between Kian and me. He didn't touch Kian, but the threat was palpable in the set of his shoulders.

"Careful, Mr. Turner," Maxwell said, his voice smooth and deadly. "You are speaking to the Vice President of Strategy at Lewis Holdings."

Kian froze. His face drained of color, his eyes widening as the implication hit him. He looked at me—really looked at me—and saw the "hired help" standing in five thousand dollars of Italian wool, holding the keys to his destruction.

"Hello, Kian," I said, my voice steady and cool. "We have a lot to discuss."

Behind him, Bailee Hunter took a sip of her champagne, her eyes locking onto mine. She didn't look angry. She looked intrigued.