Stephanie’s fingernails carved half-moons into her palms as she strode down the 9th-floor hallway, the aftermath of the meeting clinging to her like a toxic vapor. The click of her heels against marble echoed like a countdown—each step measured, deliberate, a performance for the colleagues who might be watching. Let them see composure, she thought. Let no one see the fury.
Hadi’s coup had been masterful. The way he’d leaned forward in his chair, all faux humility, as the Under-Secretary-General handed him the reins. The way the room had pivoted toward him—Labib nodding, Nicolas stroking his beard in approval—as if they’d forgotten she was even there. Worst of all was Stephanie’s own face in that moment, frozen in a mask of professional interest while her blood screamed treason.
Her office door hissed shut behind her. The sudden silence was deafening. Outside, New York glittered indifferently through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a skyline of broken teeth against a bruised twilight sky.
She sank into her chair, its leather sighing under her weight. For a long moment, she simply stared at her hands, willing them to stop trembling. Then, with the precision of a surgeon, she opened her desk drawer and extracted a single mint—peppermint, sharp and bracing—before popping it into her mouth. The burst of cold cleared her head just enough.
Her phone was in her hand before she’d fully decided. The contact she needed was buried under layers of discretion: F.D., with no last name, no title. Just the initials of the only person who’d ever outmaneuvered her and lived to smirk about it.
The line connected on the third ring.
“Stephanie.” Fred’s voice was warm velvet stretched over steel. “I’d say ‘to what do I owe the pleasure,’ but we both know this isn’t social.”
She closed her eyes. “I need your particular brand of cynicism.”
“That bad?” A pause—the rustle of fabric, a door closing on his end. “Tell me.”
And so she did. The meeting. The way Hadi had woven his little narrative—“We must learn from the pandemic’s lessons”—as if he alone had carried the digital division through the crisis. The Under-Secretary-General’s approving nod. The way Stephanie had sat there, her smile stapled into place, while her own contributions were erased with every polished slide of Hadi’s presentation.
“He didn’t just steal the project,” she hissed. “He rewrote history. Made himself the hero. And now the entire comms team thinks this was his vision all along.”
Fred exhaled—a slow, considering sound. “Ah. Not just ambition, then. Narrative control.”
“It’s a fucking mutiny.”
“Language, Stephanie.” She could hear his grin. “But yes. The question is—do you want to punish him, or outplay him?”
She blinked. “Is there a difference?”
“Always.” Ice clinked in a glass on his end. “Punishment is emotional. Strategy is cold. Which serves you better?”
The mint had dissolved to nothing. She sucked air through her teeth. “He needs to understand he can’t do this. Not to me.”
“Understood.” Another pause. “Then here’s your first move: Let him think he’s won.”
Midnight Oil
The email took her three drafts and two fingers of single-malt Scotch.
The first version was a grenade—“You will not exclude me from decisions that fall under my purview”—deleted with a stab of the backspace key.
The second was a labyrinth of passive aggression—“Per our shared objectives, let’s discuss how my team might support your initiative”—erased just as quickly.
The third was perfect. Four l
ines. No wasted words. A scalpel, not a cleaver.
Hadi—
Congratulations on the project launch. Let’s align tomorrow on integration with social media strategy.
Best,
Stephanie
She hit send at 11:47 PM. His reply arrived by 1:12 AM.
Stephanie—
Your expertise is essential to this phase. My office, 9 AM?
—H.
Essential. Not “invaluable,” not “appreciated.” A calculated word. She traced it with her thumb, the screen’s glow painting her face blue in the dark.
The Reckoning
Hadi’s office was a study in controlled power—spare, modern, the UN flag and a single framed photo (him shaking hands with the Secretary-General) the only personal touches. The scent of expensive coffee hung in the air.
He stood as she entered, all crisp white sleeves and practiced calm. “Stephanie. Thank you for coming.”
She didn’t sit. Didn’t accept the coffee he offered. “Let’s skip the preamble.”
A flicker behind his eyes—surprise? Annoyance?—gone as quickly as it came. “Of course.”
“You blindsided me.” No heat. Just fact.
He had the decency to hesitate. “The timeline was—”
“—irrelevant.” She stepped closer, close enough to see the pulse in his throat. “Protocol exists for a reason. You violated it. Intentionally.”
For the first time, Hadi looked tired. The shadows under his eyes betrayed late nights, the weight of whatever game he was playing. “This project is bigger than egos,” he said quietly.
“Everything here is about ego.” She held his gaze. “But since we’re pretending otherwise—here’s the new rule: You involve me before decisions. Not after. Not as an afterthought.”
Silence. Somewhere, a clock ticked.
Then, slowly, Hadi nodded. “Agreed.”
“And if you test me on this,” she added, sweet as arsenic, “I won’t send polite emails next time.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Understood.”
The Aftermath
The weeks that followed were a masterclass in détente.
In meetings, Stephanie was all razor-sharp insights and flawless presentations—“As Hadi and I discussed, the metrics show…”—her voice smooth as she reclaimed her narrative inch by inch.
Hadi, for his part, played the gracious collaborator—“Stephanie’s team has identified critical synergies”—but she caught the way his knuckles whitened around his stylus when she corrected his timelines.
The office noticed. Of course they noticed. Labib’s raised eyebrows when she “accidentally” cc’d the Deputy SG on a project update. Nicolas’s poorly hidden smirk when Hadi had to revise his rollout plan after her analytics intervention.
And through it all, Fred’s voice in her ear: “War is expensive. But influence? That’s currency.”
She watched. She waited.
And the game, now truly begun, stretched endlessly before them.
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