Page 104 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
He has no idea.
Sometimes I catch my own reflection in the glass walls and barely recognize myself. Not because I look different—I don’t. Same red lips. Same sharp suit. Same perfectly curled hair. But there’s something in my eyes now. Something colder. Harder. Something that says:I know exactly what you’ve done, and I’m not done with you.
In every quiet corner. Every flicker of unease I catch on Tidball’s face when certain files go missing. I know Grau’s out there, circling the perimeter like a wolf biding his time.
I’m not afraid.
Not of him.
Not anymore.
Because if this is war—and it is—then I’ve picked my side.
And I’m done waiting to be rescued.
Some nights, I can still hear my father’s voice in my head. Not the warm version from childhood, reading to me under solar lamps or teaching me how to fold trade proposals like puzzles.No, the other one. The clipped, deliberate tone he used when I started shadowing him at twelve. “Never let them see you bleed, Yara. They’ll drown in it.”
I used to think he meant investors. Or rivals. Or press vultures with their predatory grins.
But he meant people like Tidball.
He meant people like me.
Because now, every smile I fake feels like a slice to the inside of my cheek. Every polite nod during board meetings feels like swallowing glass. And the worst part? I’m good at it. So godsdamned good at pretending that sometimes I scare myself.
That used to bother me.
Now… I’m not so sure.
Tidball’s starting to sweat. Not visibly—he’s too polished for that—but I know the signs. The way his voice tightens a little too much when I enter a room. The faint twitch in his jaw when he sees me take notes. The subtle delays in information reaching my terminal. He’s clocking me now. Realizing I’m not just window dressing.
And gods help me, Ilikeit.
I know what that says about me.
I know what my father would say, if he were still alive to say it.
You’re walking a knife’s edge, Yara. One misstep, and you’re no better than the men you despise.
But I’m starting to think the edge is the only place I’ve ever belonged.
In quiet moments—when the office is empty and the city’s low hum presses against the glass walls like a living thing—I sit at my desk, fingers hovering over files Grau passed me through encrypted channels, and I feel it building. Not just anger. Not grief.Resolve.
It’s not about revenge anymore.
It’s about reclamation.
My name. My legacy. My goddamnlife.
I open a file marked “Confidential – Internal Transfers.” It’s full of line items, shell companies, backdoor contracts. I recognize some of the names—shadow entities Tidball used to frown at in public while feeding them assets behind the scenes.
I don’t even flinch anymore.
The first time I read something like this, I cried. Real, shaking, gut-punched sobs alone in the dark. The kind of tears that tasted like betrayal and salt and shame.
Now I just breathe.
And copy.
