Chapter Three
Controlled Fire
(Amara's POV)
The conference room on the thirty-second floor felt ten degrees colder than the rest of the building.
Or maybe it was just her nerves.
Amara adjusted the tablet in her hands, reminding herself she had presented campaigns to executive boards before. She had handled high-pressure rooms.
She had survived worse than a meeting.
Still, this was different.
Because Ethan Blackwood was at the head of the table.
And when he entered a room, the atmosphere obeyed.
The leadership team was already seated when she walked in. Five executives. Two investors dialed in virtually. Large screen glowing at the front.
This wasn't a small internal discussion.
This was the pre-launch strategy for Blackwood Technologies' newest AI expansion — a global rollout.
High stakes.
High visibility.
High risk.
She took her seat midway down the table.
Ethan entered last.
No announcement. No theatrics.
But every conversation stopped.
He didn't look at her immediately.
He reviewed the printed briefs placed in front of him, flipping one page slowly.
"Let's begin," he said.
His voice was calm.
Precise.
Controlled.
The Head of Product started the overview. Technical details. Market predictions. Competitor analysis.
Amara listened carefully.
And then she saw it.
A flaw.
A gap in positioning.
They were marketing power.
But not trust.
AI scared people.
Power alone wouldn't sell it.
Trust would.
She hesitated.
This was her first week.
Interrupting senior leadership wasn't exactly safe.
But stagnation is punished.
His words echoed in her mind.
Failure wasn't punished. Stagnation was.
Her pulse quickened.
She raised her hand slightly.
The room quieted.
Ethan's eyes lifted to hers.
Not soft.
Not warm.
Assessing.
"Yes, Ms. Bennett?"
There it was again — that awareness that he noticed everything.
She inhaled slowly.
"With respect, I believe the current strategy emphasizes dominance in the market," she began evenly. "But AI adoption globally is still rooted in consumer fear. We're selling strength. We should be selling security."
A few executives exchanged glances.
Ethan leaned back slightly in his chair.
"Continue."
Encouragement? Or challenge?
She pressed forward.
"If we position the technology as an extension of human capability rather than a replacement of it, adoption rates could increase by at least fifteen percent in emerging markets."
Silence.
Not awkward.
Heavy.
Ethan's gaze didn't leave her.
"Data?" he asked.
She tapped her tablet, projecting graphs onto the screen. "Consumer behavior analytics from the European pilot campaign. The fear-based hesitations decreased when messaging shifted toward partnership rather than automation dominance."
The Head of Product frowned slightly. "That wasn't the original angle."
"No," she agreed calmly. "But it was the more effective one."
A subtle tension crept into the room.
This was no longer just an idea.
This was a challenge.
Ethan stood.
He walked toward the screen slowly.
Every step deliberate.
He studied the graphs.
Then he turned toward her.
"Are you suggesting we reposition the global campaign one month before launch?"
The question wasn't angry.
It was dangerous.
She held his gaze.
"Yes."
A quiet inhale rippled across the table.
He walked closer.
Not invading.
But close enough to test her composure.
"You've been here four days," he said evenly. "And you want to alter a six-month strategy."
Her heartbeat was loud in her ears.
But her voice remained steady.
"You hired me to think. Not to agree."
Silence.
Then—
The faintest shift at the corner of his mouth.
Approval.
The executives noticed it too.
He turned back toward the table.
"Run the projections with Bennett's model," he ordered. "If her numbers hold, we pivot."
Just like that.
Decision made.
Authority unquestioned.
The room shifted.
Power had chosen logic over ego.
And she had survived.
The meeting continued, but something had changed.
The tension between them was no longer just awareness.
It was respect.
After the room cleared, Amara gathered her tablet quickly, trying to exit before overthinking what had just happened.
"Ms. Bennett."
His voice stopped her mid-step.
She turned slowly.
The room was empty now.
Just the two of them.
He stood at the head of the table, jacket removed, sleeves slightly rolled. Less CEO.
More man.
"You challenged my executive team in your first strategic meeting," he said.
Her stomach tightened.
"Yes."
"Why?"
The question wasn't accusatory.
It was curious.
She answered honestly.
"Because I have something to prove."
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"To them?" he asked.
She hesitated.
Then quieter—
"To myself."
There it was.
The crack.
He saw it.
Of course he did.
He stepped closer, but not too close.
"You don't prove your value by surviving rooms," he said calmly. "You prove it by owning them."
Her breath caught.
The words weren't flirtation.
They were instruction.
But something about the way he said it — the way his eyes held hers — sent warmth beneath her skin.
Professional tension.
Sharp.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
"You did well today," he added.
Simple.
Measured.
But it landed heavier than praise.
"Thank you, Mr. Blackwood."
A pause.
Then:
"It's Ethan," he corrected quietly.
The shift was small.
But intentional.
She nodded once.
"Thank you… Ethan."
Her voice wrapped around his name softly.
And something inside him tightened.
He stepped back first.
Restoring distance.
"Get me the revised projections by tomorrow morning."
"Yes."
She walked out of the room trying to steady her breathing.
And Ethan remained standing there long after the door closed.
He told himself it was about strategy.
About talent.
About protecting his company.
But deep down—
He knew.
The tension wasn't just professional anymore.
It was becoming personal.
And personal was dangerous.