The "You Have Pleased Me" bonus had left a strange, electric charge in the air. Alexander had retreated into a state of what I could only describe as "dramatic sulking," a brooding silence punctuated by heavy sighs and long, soulful stares at Genevieve the plant, as if seeking its botanical counsel. The balance of power had shifted, and he didn't know how to re-calibrate the theatrics. Our interactions became polite, efficient, and strangely devoid of the usual Shakespearean flourishes. It was, in its own way, more unsettling than the chaos.
This fragile détente was shattered by Isabella. She had been suspiciously quiet since Alexander's professional dismissal, a silence more threatening than any of her previous maneuvers. We should have known she was simply reloading.
She chose her moment with the precision of a sniper. It was during a high-stakes meeting with a delegation of Japanese tech investors, the same group he had charmed with his "portfolio in bloom" metaphor. The presentation was going flawlessly. Alexander was in his element, a perfect blend of his newfound quiet competence and his signature dramatic flair. He was discussing "synergistic data-stream ecosystems" with the gravitas of a poet discussing the cosmos.
Isabella swept in, unannounced. She was a vision in crimson, a dress so bold it was a declaration of war. She didn't apologize for interrupting. She simply glided to the empty seat at the conference table as if it had been reserved for her all along.
"Darling," she purred, bestowing a smile upon the bewildered investors. "Please, don't stop on my account. I was just dying to hear about your… data streams." She made it sound like a frivolous hobby.
Alexander's smile was tight. "Isabella. This is a closed session."
"But I'm a stakeholder, Alex," she countered sweetly, her eyes glinting. "In so many ways." She turned her predatory smile on the lead investor, Sato-san. "Don't you find his passion for metaphors so… refreshing? Like a child describing a thunderstorm."
The insult was exquisitely crafted, disguised as a compliment. The air left the room. Alexander's jaw tightened. I saw the "Titan of Industry" stance falter.
The meeting limped on, but the magic was broken. Alexander was thrown, his rhythm disrupted. Isabella sat, a silent, smiling sphinx, radiating disruptive energy. Then, as Alexander was attempting to recover, she made her move.
Sterling entered with a tray of refreshments, including a pot of the special green tea favored by our guests. As he poured a cup for Sato-san, Isabella leaned forward.
"That smells exquisite," she said. "A hint of… sakura?"
"Indeed, madam," Sterling intoned.
"May I?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer, she picked up Sato-san's cup and took a delicate sip. "Lovely." She set it down. Then, she subtly, almost imperceptibly, brushed her own wrist against the delicate handle of the cup, nudging it. A small splash of pale green liquid landed on her skin.
What happened next was a masterclass in performance. A tiny, almost dainty "Oh!" escaped her lips. She stared at the droplet on her wrist as if it were acid. A red flush began to spread with alarming speed.
"Alex…" she whispered, her voice suddenly weak. "The… the tea…"
She clutched her throat, her eyes widening in feigned panic. "I'm… allergic… to… chrysanthemum…" she gasped, each word a struggle. "A… hidden… ingredient…"
It was a lie. A brilliant, audacious lie. The tea was pure sencha. But the effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
Isabella began to sway. A strangled cough rattled in her chest. She slid gracefully from her chair onto the floor in a carefully arranged heap of crimson silk, one hand flung dramatically over her brow.
Pandemonium erupted. The Japanese investors shot to their feet, horrified. Sato-san was barking orders in rapid Japanese, presumably for a doctor.
Alexander was frozen, a statue of pure, unadulterated shock. The narrative had been hijacked. His boardroom drama had been abruptly rewritten as a medical emergency, and he was cast as the negligent host who had nearly killed his ex-fiancée.
My mind, however, did not freeze. It went cold and clear. I saw it all: the deliberate sip, the calculated brush against the cup, the specific mention of an obscure allergen. This wasn't an allergy; it was theater. Bad theater.
While others panicked, I moved. I didn't go to Isabella. I went to Sterling, who was already on his phone, his face a mask of grim efficiency.
"Don't call an ambulance," I said, my voice low but cutting through the chaos. "Call Dr. Evans. Now." Dr. Evans was the company physician, a no-nonsense woman in her sixties who had once stitched up a developer's hand after a rogue drone incident and billed it to "R&D mishap."
I then walked over to Alexander, who was still staring at Isabella's prostrate form. "Sir," I said firmly, grabbing his elbow. "The investors."
He blinked, looking at me as if seeing me for the first time. The spell was broken. He saw the horrified faces of the men he needed to impress. The "crisis" snapped him back into CEO mode.
"Sato-san," he said, his voice regaining its command. "Please, accept my deepest apologies. My assistant will escort you to the lounge. Sterling is summoning our private physician. This is a… a private matter." He infused the last words with a hint of tragic scandal, deftly reframing the fiasco as a personal melodrama rather than a professional failure.
As Sterling shepherded the confused investors out, Dr. Evans arrived with her medical bag. She took one look at Isabella, now feigning shallow breaths on the floor, and raised a skeptical eyebrow.
I knelt down. "Isabella," I said, my voice devoid of sympathy. "Dr. Evans is here. She's going to give you an epinephrine shot. It goes in the thigh. A very large needle."
Isabella's "unconscious" eyelid fluttered. A real allergic reaction wouldn't have hesitated.
Before Dr. Evans could even open her bag, Isabella let out a soft moan. "I… I think it's passing," she whispered, a hand fluttering to her chest. "The shock… just… need to lie down."
"Of course," Alexander said, his voice dangerously quiet. He looked from Isabella's performance to my calmly furious face. The scales fell from his eyes. He saw the manipulation, the sheer, ruthless calculation of it.
In that moment, the last vestiges of whatever history they shared evaporated. The Drama King had finally met a villainess whose script was even more ruthless than his own.
"Sterling," Alexander commanded, his voice like ice. "Please help Miss Valdez to my private restroom. She seems to need a… quieter stage."
As Sterling assisted a now weakly protesting Isabella to her feet, Alexander turned to me. The grand gestures were gone. The theatrics were absent. There was only a stark, clear-eyed respect.
"Miss Chen," he said. "You saw it."
"It was a poor performance," I replied flatly. "The timing was off. Too melodramatic."
A slow, genuine smile touched his lips, the first real one I'd seen in days. It wasn't a smile of amusement. It was a smile of alliance. Of shared victory in a war we hadn't known we were fighting.
"Indeed," he said. "Thank you."
He didn't say for what. He didn't need to. The faked allergy had been Isabella's masterstroke. But in trying to sabotage him, she had accomplished the one thing neither of us could have predicted. She had cemented our partnership. The assistant and the Drama King were now, officially, a team. And the villainess had just written herself out of the play.