Chapter Three: The Team

The conference room was technically a supply closet with a window — but it had a table, four mismatched chairs, and one working outlet. Which, in Zara’s eyes, made it the beating heart of an empire-in-progress.

She arrived last, coffee in hand, heels unapologetically loud against the polished concrete floor. She offered no excuse for her lateness. Power, after all, was a matter of pace.

Gia was already seated — legs crossed, phone in hand — tapping with the surgical focus of someone who could figure out what a senator whispered during sex just by reverse-searching Yelp reviews. She wore a slate-colored jumpsuit and a diamond nose stud that caught the light when she looked up, unimpressed.

Lance was leaning precariously back in his chair, reading something that might’ve been a cease-and-desist or a takeout menu. His tie was colorfully regrettable, his smirk somehow worse, and his hangover still obvious in the way he winced every time Gia’s phone chimed.

Sadie had arrived two minutes before Zara — ten minutes late, which was still perfectly punctual by PR standards. She was sipping an iced matcha with the intensity of someone trying to outmaneuver a lawsuit through antioxidants. Her blouse was pale pink, her hair severe, and her resting expression suggested she could write a public apology persuasive enough to absolve war crimes — and critique the font while doing it.

Zara sat.

“Alright,” she said. “Let’s talk about our first official client.”

Lance groaned. “You mean the guy who invented sunglasses that spy on people and forgot to hire a functioning HR department?”

“OpticDeck,” Sadie said, already pulling up the file. “Series B. No public heat yet. Just scattered chatter in fringe corners — low-traffic forums, closed group chats, minimal noise. But once it surfaces? It spreads. Fast. And if we’re not ahead of it—”

Zara cut in, lifting her coffee. “We’re chasing a shitstorm in heels.”

Gia, without looking up from her phone. “And one of us is still hungover, so let’s not.”

She let it sit for a beat, then added without ceremony, “Nicolette Phan’s the employee. She hasn’t named names yet, but she’s circling them. I pulled her follower lists, alt accounts, old GitHub activity… even found a private Medium draft she thought she deleted. It’s all measured. Intentional. She’s not impulsive — she’s strategic. I don’t think she wants the spotlight that comes with going public.”

“Good,” Zara said. “Thoughtful means she’s calculated — and that makes her negotiable.”

She reached for her coffee, steady and unbothered.

“They came in clumsy with hush money. I’ll repackage it as something she wants to say yes to.”

“If she goes wide, I’ll spin it,” Sadie said, still scrolling. “Make her look unstable — ex-employee with a grudge, emotionally erratic, narrative-hungry. Give me a week and the right out-of-context clip, maybe an old tweet.”

“That’s the nuclear option,” Zara said, sipping her coffee. “We know what Mr. Magic Glasses needs — let’s charm her into wanting some version of the same thing.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “You mean flirt with her?”

“I mean see where she’s at,” Zara replied. “I think she wants a personal touch. It feels more validating.”

Lance muttered, mostly to himself, “Right. So… you do mean flirt with her.”

Kevin looked up. “Just to be clear, we are not offering any kind of settlement without proper legal channels. If this goes sideways—”

“Kevin,” Zara interrupted, “if this goes sideways, we’re already off the record.”

Lance smirked. “Exactly why I’m the one handling the paperwork.”

Kevin turned to him, deadpan. “You’re disbarred.”

Lance exhaled loudly, unbothered. “The benefit of being disbarred is that I can’t be disbarred again.”

“You do realize you can go to prison,” Kevin replied evenly. “Unauthorized practice of law is a felony.”

“I did a couple of Froot Loops commercials when I was a kid,” Lance said. “Still have my SAG card. So technically, I’m not impersonating a lawyer — I’m a method actor studying a role.”

Zara gave him a questioning glance. “You think that’ll hold up in court?” she asked, knowing full well it wouldn’t.

“No,” he said with a wry smile and an exaggerated wink, “but I know someone who’ll fuck a judge to get me out of it.”

Kevin closed his laptop. “I’m the actual lawyer. Please stop saying things that might one day be quoted in front of a grand jury.”

“You’re just mad your tie doesn’t have personality,” Lance snarked.

Gia finally looked up from her phone, sharp and amused.

“The guy who invented the tie died of neck trauma. You’re literally cosplaying a fashion noose.”

Lance blinked. “Jesus.”

Sadie didn’t flinch. “Focus.”

Zara leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table.

“Nicolette’s smart,” Zara said. “She doesn’t want to be rescued — she wants control. She wants to be heard before she’ll let herself be bought.”

Gia nodded. “So we talk. No pressure. Give her the illusion of agency.”

“Soft containment,” Sadie said, approving.

“Firm charm,” Zara replied.

Gia studied her, one brow lifted.

“You’re meeting her yourself?”

Zara smiled — slow, sly. “Of course I am. If she’s going to flirt with fire, she deserves to meet the flame.”

Kevin raised a hand — not to stop her, but like he wanted partial credit for trying.

“Zara — just… be careful. She could record you. You’re a walking headline.”

“Good,” she said, already rising. “Let her record me.”

She picked up her coffee, turned toward the door, and tossed the line over her shoulder like a charm she knew would work.

“I’m very convincing on camera.”

Chapter Four: The NDA Era

The lobby bar at the Hotel Halcyon was carved out of velvet and shadows — all low golden light and curated hush, the kind of place that felt like a memory you weren’t sure you’d earned. The booths were deep enough to disappear into, the staff moved like ghosts, and the clientele had just enough money to assume that anyone near them was someone worth ignoring.

Zara picked a table in the corner, half-screened by a slatted wood divider and a vase of deliberately asymmetrical flowers — the kind of arrangement that whispered gallery installation more than centerpiece. She ordered a bourbon neat, kept her coat on, and waited.

Nicolette arrived five minutes late — black turtleneck, tailored trousers, light makeup, hair twisted into a shape that said I’m not trying, and made sure you knew she didn’t have to.

She sat without smiling.

“So,” Nicolette said, “are you here to silence me or seduce me?”

Zara took a slow sip of her drink, then set it down. “That depends,” she said. “Which one are you hoping for?”

Nicolette didn’t blink. “The second one, if I’m being honest. But I assume you’re paid better for the first.”

Zara smiled — not sweetly. “Don’t confuse payment with priority.”

A beat passed. Nicolette crossed her arms, her voice flat but sharpened.

“I know why you’re here,” she said. “You think you can dangle money, or clout, or maybe your tits in front of me and I’ll roll over and sign something.”

Zara didn’t flinch. She leaned in slightly, her eyes narrowing with the kind of deliberate precision that always made people brace before they realized they’d already lost ground.

“I’m not asking you to roll over,” she said, calm and razor-clean. “I’m asking you to look at this from every angle, so when you make your move, it’s the smartest one you’ve got.”

“You’re not here for me,” Nicolette said.

Zara’s tone softened, but the edge was still there. “Honey. I worked in tech. I know exactly what those men are like. You say you were harassed—yeah? I believe you. I know it’s true.”

Something in Nicolette’s posture shifted. Barely visible. But Zara saw it — that microsecond of recognition. Of feeling heard without having to offer evidence.

“But I also know,” Zara continued, “that whatever you’ve got — Slack logs, the emails, the footage — it’s either not enough to win, or you’re not ready to let some defense lawyer strip your whole life down in public. And trust me, of all people, I get it.”

Nicolette’s jaw tightened.

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying OpticDeck’s already taking on water. You walk, and most of the dev team follows. The money dries up right after. If you want something from this—whatever your version of justice looks like—you need to take it now. Because time?” Zara let that last word linger. “Time is not your friend here.”

“This feels like a pressure tactic.”

Zara lifted her empty bourbon glass, signaling the waiter with the same ease someone might hail a cab. Her tone didn’t shift an inch.

“I told you what you need to know. What you do with it? That’s on you. Everything else?” She smiled. “Is just drinks.”

Nicolette narrowed her eyes. “You’re something else.”

“I hear that a lot,” Zara said, unbothered.

“You put on a show, but I don’t think it’s the full performance.”

Zara’s eyes lit with something sharper than amusement. “And I’m not buying the whole ‘buttoned-up engineer’ routine. I know a repressed freak when I see one.”

She let it sit — not rushed, not coy. Just inevitable.

Then she slid her glasses up the bridge of her nose with that slow, practiced confidence that always landed like a dare.

“Shall we test the theory?”

The waiter arrived with a fresh bourbon, placing it gently in front of Zara. Without missing a beat, she reached up, took another glass from his tray — one clearly intended for someone else — and slid it across the table toward Nicolette.

“My friend will take this one,” she said, like it had already been agreed upon.

“I don’t drink with people who want something from me.”

Zara leaned in, her voice warm, low, and just shy of a whisper. “Then lucky for you—this part’s just for pleasure. You don’t have to stay. But I’d like it if you did.”

The silence between them thickened — not awkward, just slow and heated, stretched taut between challenge and invitation. It hummed in the space between their glasses, their glances. Zara could feel it. Nicolette could too — but her eyes had gone distant for a moment, focused somewhere internal. A shift. A pause before a pivot.

It was the first sign Zara had broken through. Something had landed. Something was working.

“I know this is the social part,” Nicolette said, her tone carefully neutral, “but what would a deal actually look like?”

Zara didn’t blink. “You turn over what you’ve got. Sign an NDA. And just like that—money appears in your account.”

“How much?”

Zara offered a small shrug, casual but precise. “I’m a problem solver, not a negotiator. If money’s what you want, my fake lawyer can help you squeeze every last usable dollar out of OpticDeck.”

“Fake lawyer?”

“My real lawyer,” she said, waving a hand as if the distinction was irrelevant. “Kevin just calls him that. It’s a whole thing.” She set her glass down. “No more business talk.”

And with that, the conversation slid into something easier. Not innocent, but softer around the edges. Another round appeared. The drinks smoothed everything they hadn’t said. The bourbon did what bourbon does — unwound the tension, blurred the context, softened the outlines of consequence.

They talked like old friends. Or strangers pretending they were. The sharp, strategic edges of their earlier exchange dulled into something looser. More dangerous in a different way.

And then — in the kind of subtle shift most people wouldn’t catch — Zara saw it. A glance, fast and unguarded. Nicolette’s eyes dropped to her mouth. Not a stare. Not a slip. Just a fraction too long.

Zara stood.

“Come with me.”

Nicolette didn’t move.

Zara leaned in slightly, voice low and calm, the kind that felt like gravity. “You’re not afraid of me,” she said. “You’re afraid of how easy it would be.”

And that was enough.

The hotel suite was clean, minimal, and overpriced — a design statement with blackout curtains and a king-sized bed that had never known loyalty. Zara shut the door behind them, dropped her coat onto the armchair, and her bag on the floor next to it. She turned just in time to meet Nicolette’s gaze — sharp, narrowed, and trying hard not to betray how fast her heart was probably beating.

Zara gave her a slow once-over, then said, deadpan, “So what’s it going to be? Should I get the strap-on, or will my tongue do?”

Nicolette blinked. “You brought a strap-on to a business meeting? That’s an option?”

Zara smiled, slipping off her blazer. “Strap-ons are serious business. And they’re always an option.”

That earned her half a laugh — mostly surprise. Nicolette crossed her arms, visibly recalibrating.

“I’ve heard your tongue is legendary.”

Zara stepped forward, close enough to feel the electricity start to arc between them. “Suit yourself.”

That was all it took.

Nicolette kissed her like they were already halfway through something. Clothes came off fast and careless — Zara’s blouse hit the floor in one smooth tug, Nicolette’s slacks shoved down with the kind of practiced urgency that spoke to experience, not affection. Their bodies met like arguments, like choreography, like a fight that already knew how it would end.

Zara responded instantly, matching force with intention, kissing her back like it was a dare she planned to win. Nicolette tasted like mint and fury. Her body moved with purpose — the kind of directness born of not wanting to be misunderstood.

Zara let herself be pushed back onto the bed, one knee bent, hair falling loose around her shoulders as Nicolette climbed over her like she was claiming a throne. There was no pause, no awkward laughter — just friction and breath and the sound of clothes dragging against skin.

Nicolette straddled her, grinding slow, deliberate, testing. Zara’s breath hitched — not because she was outmatched, but because apparently, her “repressed freak” radar was even sharper than she thought. Nicolette wasn’t playing. And Zara suddenly wanted it more than she’d planned for.

“Do you fuck every conflict of interest?” Nicolette asked, her voice tight with control she was quickly losing.

Zara didn’t miss a beat. “I’m not conflicted,” she said, eyes steady. “Just interested.”

“Good,” Nicolette breathed. “Then take your time.”

Zara did.

With her mouth, her hands, her rhythm — all of it was deliberate, layered, unfolding with the kind of focus that made Nicolette writhe, curse, clutch the sheets, go quiet, then gasp her way back to sound. Zara learned her fast — what made her knees pull in, what made her pull Zara closer. By the time Nicolette came, back arched, one hand tangled in Zara’s hair, it wasn’t dominance that filled the room. It was release. Not surrender to someone else, but to the inevitability of something that had always been headed straight for this moment.

Later, in the quiet sweat-humid stillness, Nicolette lay beside her, spine curved toward the window, face unreadable in the low light. Zara sat up, reached for her phone, then her oversize tote bag — casual, unhurried.

“You’re not what I expected,” Nicolette said softly, but not kindly.

“I never am,” Zara said.

Nicolette turned her head, lips twitching slightly. “Your tongue is legendary.”

Zara reached into her tote bag, pulled out the strap-on, and held it up with a calm, almost polite tilt of the wrist.

“Round two?” she asked, deadpan — not as a challenge, but as an offer no sane woman would turn down.

Nicolette didn’t answer.

She didn’t need to.

They didn’t talk after — not much, anyway. Just the quiet, satisfied hum of two people who’d both gotten what they wanted, and maybe a little more.

By morning, Zara was already back in motion.

The office smelled like someone had aggressively overboiled jasmine tea, which usually meant Sadie had already arrived and taken control of the mood. Zara entered with sunglasses still on, no apology in her stride, and a coffee the color of jet fuel. Her blouse was slightly wrinkled, her hair swept back in a bun that suggested last night had run long — not that anyone in the room would dare ask.

Lance was barefoot on the couch. Gia was curled in a beanbag with her phone in one hand and a chocolate-covered almond in the other. Kevin stood by the window in a posture that suggested he had been internally screaming since sunrise.

Sadie looked up from her laptop, expression unchanging. “You didn’t text.”

“I was busy,” Zara said, removing her sunglasses and setting them on the table like a prop from a better life.

Gia popped an almond. “Did you handle it?”

“Sure did, fingered and licked it too,” Zara confirmed, emphasizing the words just enough to make Kevin groan without saying anything.

Lance stretched out a leg. “So? Is she going to torch the company or what?”

Zara took a sip of her coffee, then sank into her chair like she’d already won. “She all but confirmed she doesn’t have enough for a lawsuit, and going to the press just turns her life into a headline. She’ll take the money.”

Kevin blinked. “Just like that?”

Zara shrugged. “We had a conversation.”

Lance grinned. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Sadie didn’t look up, just kept scrolling. “I’m assuming there’s no paper trail.”

“Nothing anyone can subpoena,” Zara said, flipping open her tablet. “I gave her the options. Only one makes sense. She’ll pick it.”

Kevin sat down slowly. “Zara, if you coerced her into—”

“She came willingly,” Zara said. “Multiple times.”

Lance gave an appreciative nod, like a man who not only approved but respected the technique.

Sadie cleared her throat. “So, Nicolette’s neutralized?”

Zara kept her eyes on the screen. “She’s processing. Give it three days, max.”

“So how do we close it?” Gia asked, legs crossed, voice casual.

“Easy,” Zara said, turning to Lance. “Give it a couple of days, then reach out. Tell her if she returns the files and signs an NDA, Fancy Glasses is offering two-fifty. Not a bribe, not an admission — just a golden parachute. A thank-you card with a few extra zeroes.”

“She’s gonna ask for five,” Lance said.

“Perfect. Take the deal.”

Gia raised an eyebrow. “OpticDeck’s broke. There’s no way they can float half a million.”

“They can’t,” Zara said. “That’s where Sadie comes in. Tap my rolodex. Find some bored rich guy who needs a six-figure write-off and thinks AR tech is the future.”

Sadie nodded, already opening a spreadsheet.

“Kevin,” Zara said, still in motion, “draft the paperwork. We pull six hundred from the angel investor. Five goes to Nicolette, the other hundred comes to us — consulting fee.”

Kevin nodded, already building the framework in his head — line by line, clause by clause.

Lance blinked. “So let me get this straight — we clean up his mess and find him the cash to pay us for it?”

Zara didn’t flinch. “First client. Fast win. We need proof of concept — bait for the next whale.”

“Speaking of the next whale,” Gia said, not looking away from her screen. “If we’re not careful, it’s going to spook Helixis.”

Lance looked up. “Helixis was the one that reached out, right? Quiet inquiry last week?”

Zara nodded. “Go on, Gia.”

Gia swiveled the laptop toward them. The screen lit up with a mosaic of headlines, subthreads, and half-coded tweets — vague, scattered, but all orbiting the same unnamed scandal. One Reddit post had even floated a theory that the “jailbird” Zara Zest was somehow involved.

“OpticDeck’s a mess, and the ripple’s out there,” Gia said. “Helixis is going to notice.”

“Sadie, get a counter-narrative moving. Make it organic — not spin. Scatter rumors, muddy the waters. Keep it messy, hard to follow. Nicolette’s quiet now, and once the sleuths get bored, they’ll chase the next shiny scandal. That’s how we show Helixis this is handled.”

“On it, boss,” Sadie said, already diving in.

Kevin perked up. “Want me to schedule a meeting with Helixis?”

Zara glanced at him over her coffee. “Let Sadie finish digging the grave first. Then we go knocking.”