"Ambition should be made of sterner stuff."
— Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene II
But what if ambition is made of hunger instead?
Not the clean burn of will,
But the slow ache of proximity—
Of standing close enough to taste power,
But never close enough to claim it.
Some climb by force.
Others climb by reflected light,
Mistaking being used for being chosen.
Lizzy said nothing as the door shut behind her. Her heels clicked down the marble corridor like precise code.
Nicholas's words still lingered—not harsh, not cruel, but laced with that quiet, institutional doubt that always knew where to cut. Nicholas hadn't called her reckless. He hadn't needed to. Just one glance at the others in the room, and she was demoted in real time. One micro-gesture, and she became the woman they'd stop listening to next quarter. Lizzy didn't need to be reminded that power was often measured not in crowns, but in quiet symbols—those subtle proofs that told the world who held the reins.
She didn't wait for the lift. She took the service stairs instead—twenty-one floors without pause—her breath steady, every step shaking off the sting like loose static.
And when she stepped into the Glass Room, she wasn't hurt anymore.
London's dusk came early that time of year. Rain streaked the windows like unresolved code—thin, constant, almost intentional. Each drop tapped a faint Morse on the glass, a cold whisper against the warmth inside. From the 97th floor of GDI Tower, the city pulsed below in red-orange trails and low-frequency delivery drones.
Rex Holloway sat across from her, still in his day jacket, collar wilted from a day of pretending he had somewhere more important to be. He stared at his data relay with practiced focus, an act perfected from years observing power in rooms not meant for him.
At thirty-two, Rex had sharp features but no elegance. His voice carried the flat cadence of a childhood spent in rented flats above fishmongers, where salt and concrete blurred and ambition had to be smuggled quietly. His mother scrubbed loading docks on twelve-hour shifts, teaching him that success belonged to those who stayed silent until their moment came.
He never went to university. He couldn't afford it. But he read everything. And more importantly, he learned to read people. Especially the ones in power. He smiled when they needed affirmation. He looked serious when they said something was clever. He mastered the microsecond laugh, the head tilt that said, "I get it, and I respect you for it."
Money was always tight. Bills stacked high, dreams clipped by reality. GDI's sprawling expense system became his playground—too low rank for big theft, too cautious to risk exposure. He padded taxi fares, inflated lunch receipts, and small claims that added up but never drew notice.
At home, things were no easier. His wife worked long hours in a nearby factory, her hands rough and her days predictable. He often thought about her—her ordinary life a stark contrast to the polished boardrooms he inhabited. There was a quiet resentment in his heart, subtle but persistent: not bitterness, exactly, but a sense of suffocation. She was good in her place, but he could never quite let go of the feeling that he was tethered to something small, something unambitious.
Still, the truth was harsher than any resentment—he needed her, their combined income barely enough to cover rent and necessities. Economic reality clipped the wings of any dreams he might have had of escape.
His loyalty to Lizzy was a calculated dance. He never overdid it — the right compliment, the discreet oat milk fetch, the well-timed nod. Enough to prop her confidence, not enough to seem weak. When meetings grew tense and her jokes fell flat, his quick, low chuckle bought her the seconds she needed to regain control. No gratitude was expected, none was given. But after that moment, she stopped questioning why he was there.
What Lizzy saw—or didn't see—was the careful architecture of a man who wanted to endure, to climb by tethering himself to someone already scaling the heights. She accepted his attention like a warm cloak, a subtle reminder that she mattered. She wasn't clear on what Rex wanted, and maybe she preferred it that way. His presence filled the quiet spaces she didn't want to admit were empty.
Rex didn't know what Nicholas had said to her upstairs, but he knew the boardroom sharks were circling. There was talk. One of the Senior Analysis Director chairs was about to open—probably Nicholas's pick. Rex wasn't even on the shortlist. But Lizzy? She had access. Even exiled, she saw the battlefield from above. If he played this right—if he stayed close, indispensable—he might finally cross the glass line.
But when no one was watching, Rex couldn't help but chuckle to himself, lost in the absurd grandeur of his daydreams. In his mind, he was the undisputed king of GDI—seated on a throne of shimmering nano-crystal, the building parting before him like scripture. Security drones drifted aside. Employees bowed. A silver cup—always the perfect temperature—rested in his hand, while KPI graphs and holographic praise streamed behind him like banners of conquest.
His suit shimmered with reactive fibers; the lights knew to spotlight him. Even the air carried his custom scent—a blend of synthetic cedar and static charge, engineered to inspire awe.
His AI assistant called him "Your Majesty." The empire thrived.
Then, always, the illusion cracked. Back in his flat. Cold dinner. Expense reports stacked like tombstones. A hundred Synth short, again.
The daydream faded, but the laugh lingered. Because Rex knew the truth—and sometimes, the greatest power was simply knowing how to play the part.
Tonight, he was here because she had looked at him, not because she had called.
And that, to him, meant everything. Now, here he was—not summoned by memo, but by the silent command of her gaze, holding two glasses of red wine like a reluctant messenger delivering fate.
She took hers wordlessly. The heels clicking on marble echoed softly down the empty corridor, like code punctuation fading into silence. Across the glass table, CrystalSight projections flickered—board sentiment forecasts, edge-case financial stress models—all bathed in a soft violet glow, their light fractured by faint reflections on the windowpane. The low hum of the building's air circulation whispered behind them, a quiet pulse in the stillness.
But Lizzy didn't glance at any of it. Her gaze locked on him, sharp and restless—still simmering with the sting left behind by Nicholas's words. That quiet institutional doubt, the cold cut that had lingered after the meeting, was now redirected. Rex was the closest target in reach.
"You think I'm reckless." She swirled her wine—slow, deliberate venom. "That I showed up just to torch the whole place."
Rex met her eyes, voice low and steady. "Maybe you're the only one brave enough to know which fuse box to blow."
Her smile was sharp, a flicker of challenge. But it wasn't warmth.
Silence fell like a curtain. Somewhere distant, the soft drone of delivery bots lulled into sleep. Lizzy rose, her heels struck once on the polished stone—deliberate, cold. Below them, the city blinked—an animal made of steel and currency, indifferent and relentless.
She turned slowly, glass in hand. "You ever lie to protect something that didn't deserve it?"
Rex shrugged. "I work in finance."
She stepped closer, deliberate, measured. The scent of her—amber and cracked pepper over warm skin—drifted through the cool air like static heat. It wasn't sweet; it was charged, a deliberate blend of sex and command. Rex inhaled too sharply, and it hit him like a whispered dare. "Then don't lie to me tonight."