Pretend to love you
LIANA’s POV
I slide the thick stack of charts and spreadsheets across the polished oak table, feeling the weight of every formula and projection I’ve double-checked twice. The boardroom hums with low chatter, the kind that always tightens my stomach like a vise. I don’t belong in this world of tailored suits and clipped authority—but here I am, marketing director at Lock Innovations, and no one is going to dismiss my work today.
Ethan Whitlock leans against the head of the table, arms crossed, storm-gray eyes sweeping the room. He radiates control, the kind that makes people sit straighter without realizing it. My pulse quickens—not in fear, exactly, but in anticipation. This is the man who broke all three of my personal rules in one glance, and now he’s challenging me directly on rollout strategy.
“Your projections are... ambitious,” Ethan says, voice even but precise, the sort of calm that somehow feels like a warning. “We don’t need to over-segment the market this early. We roll broadly, gather the data, adjust. That’s the plan.”
I clench my jaw. Ambitious? My analysis isn’t ambitious—it’s accurate. Segment by segment, I’ve mapped where the campaign will thrive, predicted drop-off points, and adjusted for seasonal trends. His “top-down” plan is blunt and likely to waste half our ad budget chasing generic impressions.
“Respectfully,” I begin, trying to keep my tone neutral but firm, “if we follow your approach, we risk diluting our spend. My analysis shows that focusing on the Southeast and urban tech hubs first will yield a 17 percent higher engagement than your projected rollout.” I slide a color-coded chart toward him, letting the data speak for itself.
The room goes silent. I can feel the heat at my ears but I refuse to back down. Eyes flicker from Ethan to me, some impressed, some wary. The board loves results, not bravado—but the way I present them, they can’t ignore me.
Ethan’s brow furrows. For a second, just a flicker, he pauses mid-step, his hand frozen over the laser pointer. I catch the hesitation and almost allow a victorious smirk to slip—almost.
Then, his composure snaps back. He steps forward, voice smooth, controlled. “Impressive work, Hansley. Thank you for the analysis.” He flicks his wrist as if dismissing the discussion, pivoting back to the broader board agenda. “We’ll integrate your projections into the pilot. Proceed as scheduled.”
The words are polite. Ice-cold polite. No concession, no acknowledgment of the challenge I just laid at his feet beyond the bare minimum. And yet, there’s something else in his eyes—an acknowledgment of skill I didn’t ask for, a brief pause that confirms he sees me.
I sit back, jaw tight, feeling that mix of pride and anger. Pride that I stood my ground, and anger that he remains untouchably composed, giving no hint of the storm I just stirred. My hands tighten around the pen on my notes. He may have controlled the board, but he hasn’t controlled me. Not yet.
Mrs. Greta, seated at the far end, adjusts her glasses and nods almost imperceptibly toward me, her expression unreadable. A quiet acknowledgment. She’ll want that data packet later, I think. Something about her glance feels different from the others—measured interest, maybe even approval.
The board meeting drones on, but my mind is elsewhere. I can still feel the heat of my exchange with Ethan, his sharp calm pressing against my confidence like a weight I can’t shrug off. I gather my things slowly, flipping through the charts, pretending I’m absorbed in details while my pulse refuses to settle.
As the room begins to clear, Mrs. Greta lingers behind, her half-moon glasses catching the overhead light. Her green eyes are sharp but gentle, calculating. “Liana,” she says softly, “could you send me your full data packet after the meeting? I’d like to review the segmentation in more detail.”
I blink at her, startled. The board is full of people who talk loudly and forget quickly. Mrs. Greta is deliberate, measured—someone who notices skill when it appears. “Of course,” I reply, forcing my voice steady. Pride flares in my chest. She sees the work, not just the boardroom theatrics.
As I walk toward the elevator, I pull my phone from my bag, expecting a flurry of emails, messages from the junior analysts, anything—but instead, a single notification lights the screen. My fingers hover before I open it.
A blurry photo. Ethan, Sophie—too close, too suggestive. The caption reads: “Lock Innovations’ golden boy caught in scandal?”
My stomach drops. Heat surges, anger twining with disbelief. I stare at the screen, heart thumping. I don’t know what the truth is, or if the photo is real—or staged—but one thing is clear: this meeting, this man, has already invaded more than just the boardroom.
I shove the phone back into my bag, jaw tight. Tomorrow, I promise myself, I’ll find out what’s really going on. But tonight, I let the data, the victory, and the humiliation coexist. Pride and rage mingle, sharpening my focus.
And beneath it all… curiosity.
