Beneath Her Ice

It started with a summons.

Not an invitation, not a request. A one-line email from Eliza Darcy's office:"Meeting. 10 AM. Bring project scope."

No signature. No explanation. Just her usual blend of precision and command.

Will stared at it for a long moment, debating whether to reply with a sarcastic GIF. In the end, he shut his laptop, smoothed his shirt, and reminded himself he wasn't intimidated by beautiful billionaires with god complexes.

Liar.

—

The Darcy Innovations boardroom was a cathedral of glass and restraint. Chrome fixtures. Black leather chairs. Every surface was spotless, impersonal. Like her.

Eliza was already there when he arrived, seated at the head of the table in tailored slate-gray. She didn't rise. Just nodded slightly, acknowledging his presence the way a queen might recognize a vassal.

"Mr. Bennett."

"Eliza." He slid into the chair across from her. "You wanted a meeting. I assumed it wasn't just to compliment my public speaking skills."

Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

"I've reviewed your nonprofit's metrics," she said, cutting straight to it. "You're efficient. Scalable. Undermarketed. But your impact projections could triple with proper tech integration."

Will blinked. "You read all that?"

"Twice." She leaned forward. "I want to fund your work. In full."

The words hung in the air. He stared.

"That's... generous," he said slowly. "But what's the catch?"

"I want it under the Darcy Innovations umbrella. Your initiatives, my infrastructure. I'll appoint a transition team. You'd retain your position — in title. But you'd answer to me."

Will's mouth went dry.

"So let me get this straight," he said, tone cool. "You want to buy out the one thing I've built with no strings, attach your logo to it, and make me a puppet CEO?"

Eliza didn't flinch. "That's one way to look at it."

He stood, voice rising just enough. "Why are you really doing this?"

Silence.

Then—something strange happened.

She hesitated.

"Eliza," he pressed. "Why?"

Her eyes lifted to his. For a flicker of a moment, the mask dropped.

"Because I want to be close to it," she said quietly. "To you."

Will froze.

The words came out like she didn't know how to say them. As if "feelings" were a foreign language. As if offering him a buyout was her version of a confession.

It wasn't a proposal. It was vulnerability — dressed up in power suits and contracts.

He should've softened. Should've seen what it cost her to say it.

But he didn't.

Because all he could hear was control.

"You really think affection can be leveraged like a business asset?" he asked, eyes hard. "That I'd sell myself for a check and a title?"

"I wasn't—" Her voice faltered. "I was offering—"

"No, Eliza. You were negotiating." He stepped back. "You want to feel something? Try losing control for once."

He walked out before she could reply.

And this time, she didn't stop him.