The confession felt like shedding skin. For hours, I laid bare my entire strategy. Sterling listened with an unnerving stillness, not as an enemy, but as a master strategist absorbing a rival’s playbook. When I finished, the first light of dawn was breaking over Manhattan, painting the monochrome penthouse in soft shades of gray and pink.
The war room atmosphere dissipated, leaving a different kind of tension—something more personal. We were no longer adversaries in his office. We were two people who had shared their darkest secrets and now had to exist in the same space.
“You need to sleep,” Sterling said finally, his voice rough with fatigue. “The Rotterdam conference call is at 9 a.m.”
He was right. I stood, my body aching. As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me. “Blair.”
I turn
