The Grand Ballroom was a sea of shimmering silk, expensive cologne, and the clinking of champagne flutes. For most, it was a night of celebration; for Lizbeth Jones, it was a battlefield where she was the only one without a weapon.
Michael adjusted the cuffs of his rented tuxedo. He felt like an imposter among the elite, but his eyes were locked on the far corner of the room. There stood the "Iron Lady." She looked stunning in a floor-length emerald gown, her hair swept up in a sophisticated chignon. To the casual observer, she was a queen surveying her kingdom.
To Michael, she was a woman whose grip on her glass was so tight the stem was at risk of snapping.
"Ms. Jones," a booming, condescending voice echoed.
Three men in bespoke suits surrounded her. They were members of the Senior Advisory Board—men who had been at the company since before Lizbeth was born and who clearly resented her rapid ascent.
"We were just discussing the Q4 margins, Lizbeth," the tallest one, a man named Henderson, said with a smirk. "A bit ambitious for a girl who can barely hold a conversation at the buffet, don't you think?"
Lizbeth’s face went pale. Her eyes narrowed into her signature glare, but Michael saw her chin tremble. She opened her mouth to defend the data, but the words died in her throat. The "Level Twelve Panic" had hit.
"Perhaps she’s just waiting for a man to explain it to her," another board member chuckled, sipping his scotch. "Logistics is a heavy lift for someone so... delicate."
Lizbeth’s eyes filled with a flash of hurt that she tried to mask with icy silence. She looked down at her shoes, the "Iron Lady" crumbling under the weight of their arrogance.
Michael didn't think. He didn't care about his "regular employee" status or the fact that these men could end his career with a phone call. He stepped into the circle, standing slightly to Lizbeth's right.
"Actually, Mr. Henderson," Michael said, his voice calm and resonant. "The Chief isn't silent because she's 'delicate.' She’s silent because she’s waiting to see if you’ll eventually say something worth her time."
The three men froze. Lizbeth’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock.
"Who are you?" Henderson sneered.
"Michael Smith, Logistics Analyst," Michael replied, not flinching. "I work directly under Ms. Jones. And I can tell you that the 'ambition' in those margins is backed by the most efficient automation strategy in the industry—one Ms. Jones designed herself while you were likely still at lunch."
"You're out of line, boy," the second man growled.
"Am I?" Michael turned to Lizbeth, offering her a subtle wink—the same one he used to give Sarah before a big test. "Chief, shall we go? The CEO is waiting for your breakdown of the trans-Pacific route. I’d hate for these gentlemen to keep you from someone who actually understands the math."
For a moment, Lizbeth looked like she might faint. Then, something happened. She saw the way Michael was standing—solid, unmoving, a shield of plain black wool against the emerald of her dress.
She took a deep breath. She didn't glare. She didn't stutter. She simply tucked her hand into the crook of Michael's arm.
"He’s right," Lizbeth said, her voice surprisingly steady, though Michael could feel her hand shaking against his sleeve. "I have much more important people to speak with. Good evening, gentlemen."
As they walked away, the board members stood in stunned silence. Once they reached the quiet balcony overlooking the city lights, Lizbeth finally let go of his arm and leaned against the stone railing.
"Michael..." she breathed, the cool night air hitting her flushed face. "You just... you just insulted the three most powerful men on the board. You’ll be lucky if they don't have you scrubbing floors by Monday."
"Worth it," Michael said, leaning beside her. "They were being bullies, Liz. They were using your shyness as a weakness, and it’s not. It’s just... a different frequency."
Lizbeth looked at him, the city lights reflecting in her eyes. The "Iron Lady" was gone. The "Cat Lady" was gone. There was just Lizbeth—a woman who was tired of being alone.
"Nobody has ever stood up for me like that," she whispered. "Everyone thinks I'm too strong to need help, or too cold to deserve it."
She reached out, her hand hesitating before she finally rested it on top of his on the railing. Her skin was warm, and for the first time, she didn't pull away.
"You're a very strange employee, Michael Smith," she said, a soft, shy smile touching her lips. "You keep breaking the rules."
"I told you," Michael replied, turning his hand over to lace his fingers with hers. "A good party member doesn't let their leader fight alone. Besides, I think my sister would be disappointed in me if I let a 'cool' person like Liz get picked on."
Lizbeth laughed, a quiet, musical sound that was lost to the wind. "I think I’m starting to like this 'party' we’ve formed."83Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQVW0PqYC6h
and then Add to home screen.