The week had worn Sophie thin in the way only new beginnings could: not exhaustion exactly, but the bright, taut hum of having to be alert at every moment. By Friday she'd fallen into the rhythm of Margo's orbit—the calls, the meetings, the precise tempo of decisions—but she had not yet grown used to the way her body answered to every message that arrived with Margo's initials.

The latest came just before noon. Her phone buzzed with the familiar black screen:

Tonight. Eight o'clock. The Glasshouse. Wear something that feels like armor.
—M

No preface, no explanation. Just coordinates, sharpened into certainty.

Sophie stared at the text longer than she needed to. The Glasshouse was not just a restaurant; it was a signal. Reservations were booked out months in advance. To be seen there meant something. And Margo hadn't asked. She'd informed.

Armor. The word lingered. Sophie wasn't sure whether it meant dress for protection or dress for battle—or perhaps both.

She typed one word back, the only one that seemed safe.
Understood.

⸻

The afternoon crawled, even with a dozen fires to put out. Sophie sat in on a strategy call, fielded three urgent memos, and reorganized a Monday packed with duplicate meetings. Yet beneath every task beat the question: What exactly was tonight?

By seven she was home, standing before her closet with the text still on her mind. Armor. She rejected the obvious black sheath dress—too literal. The navy silk was beautiful, but too soft. Finally she chose a deep green dress, structured at the shoulders, cut clean at the waist, its lines crisp enough to make her feel tall. She pinned her hair back loosely and added a pair of earrings she rarely wore. Looking in the mirror, she felt less like someone dressing for dinner and more like someone being ushered onto a stage.

At 7:45, the car arrived. Not a cab this time, but Margo's driver. Sophie slid into the backseat, the leather cool against her bare legs, and let the city lights carry her forward.

The Glasshouse lived up to its name—walls of glass rising into the night, the interior glowing like a lantern. Inside, the air was a soft hum of wealth and intention. Tables were spaced generously, each one its own small island. Waiters moved with a choreography that suggested training and secrets both.

Sophie gave her name to the host. He smiled knowingly, as though the answer had already been written down. "Of course. This way."

Margo was waiting at a corner table, back to the window, a position of control. She rose as Sophie approached. The sight of her undid Sophie a little: black suit, silk blouse open just enough at the collar, hair sleek and deliberate. A woman who did not blend, anywhere.

"You followed instructions," Margo said, her eyes traveling slowly over Sophie's dress before settling, with satisfaction, on her face. "Armor looks good on you."

"Thank you," Sophie said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Though I'm not sure what battle we're preparing for."

Margo's mouth curved. "You'll see."

They sat. The server appeared instantly, pouring wine without asking. Clearly Margo had already chosen. Sophie took a sip—rich, dark, unapologetic—and set the glass down carefully.

"You chose the Glasshouse," Sophie said. "That's not subtle."

"Why be subtle?" Margo asked. "I invited you here to be seen."

The statement landed heavy. Sophie held Margo's gaze. "Seen as what?"

"That," Margo said, leaning back, "is the test."

⸻

Dinner arrived in a sequence of courses that felt more like performance than sustenance. Sophie barely registered the flavors; her focus was the woman across from her. Margo spoke easily about the week's negotiations, about a new project in development, about the thousand small ways people betrayed themselves in meetings. But beneath it all ran the undercurrent of something else, something Sophie couldn't name without tasting it.

Midway through, a man in a gray suit approached the table. "Margo," he said warmly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "I thought I saw you here."

"Daniel," Margo replied smoothly. "It's been too long."

Daniel's eyes slid to Sophie. "And who's this?"

"This is Sophie O'Neill," Margo said. "My secretary."

The word landed sharp. Sophie forced a polite smile, shaking the man's hand. Secretary. Not assistant, not right hand, not extension—secretary. The choice was deliberate, and Sophie felt it like a leash tugged short.

Daniel's smile lingered. "Lucky you," he said to Sophie. "Working for Margo is like being drafted into the major leagues."

"Lucky me," Sophie echoed, though her smile had edges.

When Daniel finally left, Sophie turned back, eyebrows raised. "Secretary?"

"You didn't like that," Margo observed.

"You chose it," Sophie countered.

"I did," Margo admitted. She lifted her glass, studying Sophie over the rim. "I wanted to see how you'd wear it."

"And?"

"You didn't flinch," Margo said. "You sharpened it." Her smile was slow. "I like that."

Sophie shook her head, half-amused, half-exasperated. "You test people constantly, don't you?"

"Only the ones who matter," Margo said.

The words landed with the weight of confession, though Margo's voice was as calm as ever.

⸻

By dessert, the room had thinned. Sophie leaned back, glass half-full, the edges of her nerves softened by the wine but not dissolved. Margo, across from her, looked perfectly untouched, as if hours in her company only refined her. Sophie wondered, not for the first time, what it cost to live at that level of control.

Then Margo reached across the table. Not far—just enough that her fingertips brushed the back of Sophie's hand where it rested on the white linen. The touch was light, but it burned hotter than the wine.

"Tell me," Margo said quietly, so only Sophie could hear. "Do you regret saying yes?"

Sophie's throat tightened. She thought of the text, the car, the restaurant, the word secretary, the test she had passed or failed depending on Margo's measure. She thought of the hand now resting lightly on hers. And she found she could not lie.

"No," she said. Her voice shook, but the word was true.

Margo's smile deepened, not triumphant but pleased in a way that softened her whole face. She withdrew her hand slowly, as if reluctant. "Good."

⸻

When the check came, Sophie didn't see it. Of course she didn't. Margo signed without looking. They rose, and the host bowed them out as though they were royalty disguised as business.

Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and reflective. The car waited at the curb. Margo opened the door for Sophie, a small, old-world gesture that felt like claim more than courtesy.

The ride back was quiet. The city passed in blurs of light. Margo sat beside her, one arm draped over the seat, close but not touching. Sophie felt the nearness like gravity. She wanted, absurdly, to lean into it. She did not.

When the car stopped at Sophie's building, she turned. "Thank you for dinner," she said, because it was the only safe sentence.

Margo studied her, eyes unreadable in the dim interior. Then she said, "I will kiss you, Sophie. But not until you ask me to."

The words pulled the breath from Sophie's lungs. She opened her mouth, but nothing came. Her heart was a riot. She managed only: "Good night, Ms. Banks."

Margo's lips curved, faint and devastating. "Good night, Sophie."

Sophie stepped into the cool night air, the car pulling away behind her. She stood for a moment on the wet sidewalk, the city humming around her, and touched the back of her hand where Margo's fingers had rested. The imprint was long gone. The heat remained.