The Lockdown Takeover

Mariah Benson.

The flashbulbs feel like tiny explosions against my retinas. Each one is a pop, a crackle, another piece of my composure being chipped away for public consumption. The champagne flute in my hand is cold, a stark contrast to the heat rising up my neck. I keep my smile fixed, a mask of cool indifference I perfected years ago. It’s my most valuable asset.

“There she is! The visionary herself!” Marcus Sterling’s voice booms across the ballroom, a weaponized instrument of pure ego. He parts the sea of tuxedos and silk gowns like a barge, a smug grin plastered on his face. He smells of expensive cologne and cheap victory.

“Marcus,” I say, my voice a carefully modulated icicle. “I’m surprised to see you. I didn’t think they allowed dinosaurs in here.”

A few nervous chuckles ripple through the investors lingering nearby. Marcus’s grin widens, unafraid. He lives for this. He feeds on it.

“Always sharp, Mariah. Almost as sharp as that ridiculous fantasy you’re peddling.” He gestures vaguely towards the massive screen behind the stage, where the Benson Innovations logo glows. “What are you calling it now? ‘Project Phoenix’? Sounds a bit dramatic for an algorithm that probably just balances your checkbook.”

My grip tightens on the flute. Just slightly. He wants a reaction. He wants the world to see the formidable Mariah Benson crack under the pressure of a man’s opinion. He will not get it.

“It’s a predictive analytics engine, Marcus. A concept I’m sure your board would have to explain to you with puppets.”

His laugh is too loud, a performance for the audience he’s gathered. “Predictive analytics! You mean a glorified Magic 8-Ball. I heard you sank two hundred million into it already. Two hundred million.” He says the number like an accusation, letting it hang in the air, thick and heavy. “My shareholders would have my head on a platter. But I suppose when you inherit a company, you can treat it like your personal piggy bank.”

The barb lands. It’s designed to. A reminder that I wasn’t the son my father wanted, but the daughter who got the keys to the kingdom anyway. A truth I’ve spent the last decade trying to outrun with sheer, relentless success.

“The difference between my shareholders and yours, Marcus, is that mine believe in the future. Yours are still trying to figure out how email works.”

“The future is profit, darling. Tangible results. Not some… ghost in a machine you’ve been chasing for three years.” He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that is still loud enough for everyone to hear. “I heard your lead engineer quit last month. And the one before that. The phoenix isn’t rising, Mariah. It’s burning. Burning your money, your reputation, everything your father built.”

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage of bone. He’s not entirely wrong. The setbacks have been brutal. The pressure from my own board is immense. But admitting that would be suicide.

“You should be careful, Marcus. Sometimes, from the ashes, something new is born. Something that changes the game entirely.”

He pats my shoulder, a condescending gesture that makes my skin crawl. “Stick to making smart phones, Ellie. Leave the big ideas to the big boys.”

He turns and saunters away, his sycophants trailing in his wake, leaving me in a bubble of stunned silence. The flashes resume, more insistent now, capturing the moment of my public execution. I take a slow, deliberate sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing on my tongue. The taste is bitter. I let my mask slip back into place, perfect and impenetrable, and turn away from the gawking crowd. I need to get out of here.

My penthouse office is my sanctuary. A fortress of glass and steel fifty stories above the city that never sleeps. The skyline glitters outside the floor to ceiling windows, a sprawling galaxy of light and ambition. My ambition. I shed my heels by the door and walk across the cool marble floor, the silence a welcome balm after the noise of the gala.

I’m pouring a glass of scotch, the amber liquid catching the light, when my assistant’s voice buzzes through the intercom.

“Ma’am, Mr. Harland is here.”

Right. The final negotiation. From one battlefield to another. “Send him in, Sarah.”

I turn to face the door as it slides open. Blake Harland steps inside, and for a moment, the air electrifies. He’s the only person in this city who can match me, move for move. We’ve been circling each other for years, two predators fighting for the same territory. And damn him, he’s infuriatingly handsome. He wears a tailored charcoal suit like a second skin, and his dark hair is perfectly imperfect. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, land on me, sharp and analytical.

“Benson,” he says, his voice a low, smooth baritone that has always managed to get under my skin.

“Harland,” I reply, taking a seat behind my massive obsidian desk. My throne. “Punctual as always.”

“Time is the one asset we can’t acquire more of.” He doesn’t take the seat I gesture to. Instead, he walks to the window, his back to me, looking down at the river of headlights below. “Impressive view. You can see almost everything from up here. Makes you feel like you own it all.”

“I’m working on it.” I take a sip of my scotch. The burn is grounding.

He turns, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. It’s a smile that makes me want to check my pockets for my wallet. “Of course you are. Now, about OmniCorp. My final offer is on the table. Twenty percent above market value, all cash. You won’t get a better deal.”

OmniCorp is the key. The small tech firm holds the patent to a processing architecture that would cut Project Phoenix’s run time in half. I need it. He knows I need it. And he wants it just as badly to block me.

“It’s a generous offer, Blake. Almost as generous as the one you used to poach my head of acquisitions last year.”

He finally takes the seat opposite me, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. The picture of relaxed confidence. It’s all an act. I know his tells. The slight twitch in his jaw, the way he subtly taps his index finger against his thumb.

“Business is business, Mariah. You know that. We were interns together, remember? You taught me that lesson yourself when you took the junior analyst position we both wanted.”

Ten years. A decade since a bitter misunderstanding over a promotion turned a spark of friendship, and maybe something more, into a full blown war. I thought I was over it. I’m not.

“I earned that position,” I state flatly. “Just like I’m going to earn OmniCorp.”

“With what? Your offer is paper, a mix of cash and Benson Innovations stock. Stock that took a very interesting nosedive after your little performance at the gala tonight.” He slides his phone across the desk. The screen shows a news alert. ‘Benson CEO Flounders Under Questioning About Flagship ‘Phoenix’ Project.’ The article features a picture of me just after Marcus walked away. I look pale, cornered.

My blood runs cold. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m a pragmatist. Sterling’s public attack just made my all cash offer look a lot more stable than your stock options. The Omni board will see that. They’ll take the sure thing.”

He has me. He’s leveraged Marcus’s disgusting bravado into a tactical advantage. He’s boxed me in. It’s a brilliant move. I hate him for it.

“You’ve always been good at capitalizing on other people’s messes,” I say, the words sharper than I intend.

His smile fades. For a second, I see a flicker of something else in his eyes. Hurt? No, that can’t be right. Blake Harland doesn’t get hurt. He gets even.

“And you’ve always been good at underestimating me,” he replies, his voice dropping an octave. The room feels smaller, the air thicker. We stare at each other across the polished expanse of the desk, the silence crackling with ten years of rivalry, of what ifs and what could have beens.

I open my mouth to deliver a counter, to rip his argument and his smug face to shreds, when a sound from outside cuts through the tension. It’s a low, mournful wail that rises in pitch, echoing off the surrounding skyscrapers. It’s a sound I’ve only ever heard in drills.

An emergency siren.

Then another joins it, then another, until the entire city is screaming. Blake and I both look toward the window. Down below, the ceaseless flow of traffic is beginning to stutter and slow.

My phone buzzes on the desk. So does his. We glance at them simultaneously. The screen is lit up with a red banner. An official emergency alert.

I look up from my phone and meet his gaze. The animosity, the rivalry, the billion dollar deal hanging between us, it all evaporates, replaced by a single, shared emotion.

A cold, creeping dread.

The sirens wail on, a soundtrack for the end of the world as we know it. Or at least, the end of our night.