“Zinnia! My tragic, broken wife! Where are you?!” The wail was an auditory assault, cutting through the refined hum of the Corvell Spire. Every head in the reception hall swiveled before snapping back to their data-slates with practiced disinterest. Zinnia, however, felt a strange, satisfying tremor resonate through her. This was the moment. Her past self’s grand design, finally beginning to unfold. Bastian Rohe, still holding the scattered datachips, merely arched a dark brow, his gaze flicking from the source of the caterwaul to Zinnia. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips. “Ah, the former proprietor of your affections, I presume? He has a flair for the dramatic, doesn’t he?” Zinnia snatched the datachips from his hand, her fingers brushing his. The contact sparked a defiant heat. “Former being the operative word, Rohe. And ‘dramatic’ is a generous term for a public spectacle of pathetic groveling.” Garrick Van-Dorn, a man whose tailored suits usually conveyed an air of untouchable arrogance, stumbled into full view, his face blotchy and tear-streaked. He clutched a small, leather-bound diary to his chest, its cover a delicate lilac hue. Its pages, Zinnia knew, were perfumed with her signature scent and filled with the most preposterous, tear-jerking tales of her 'suffering.' He looked utterly undone. He spotted her then, standing beside Bastian. His eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, darted between her and the rival CEO, agony twisting his blotchy features. He lurched forward, dropping to his knees with a theatrical thud that echoed through the marble-clad space. “Zinnia! My radiant, broken bloom!” Garrick cried, pressing the diary to his forehead. “How could I have been so blind? These… these words… they pierce my very soul! To think I let such a diamond slip through my fingers!” He thrust the diary out, its cover glistening with a fresh tear. “Page fifty-seven! The description of your heartache over my… my momentary indiscretion with Lissette! It’s unbearable!” Zinnia fought a smile. Page fifty-seven. That was the one where she’d described herself weeping into a pillow embroidered with Garrick’s face, a detail so ludicrous it was genius. “Get up, Garrick,” Zinnia said, her voice a cool blade. “This isn’t a performance hall. And you certainly aren’t earning any accolades.” Bastian stepped closer to Zinnia, his shoulder brushing hers, a silent challenge in his posture. “Indeed. Such amateur theatrics cheapen the entire aesthetic of the Spire. One almost expects a wandering minstrel to emerge.” He then glanced at Garrick, who was now audibly sniffling. “Are those… tears? How terribly inconvenient for him. Does anyone have a tissue for the… *performance artist*?” No one moved. The concourse staff, trained to be invisible, remained perfectly still. Bastian’s lips curved into a predatory smile. His hand went into his jacket, pulling out a comm-unit. He spoke into it, his voice low but carrying. “Rohe Industries acquisition team, execute a buyout of the ‘Percolate & Prosper’ artisan espresso cart. Full market value, plus a twenty percent premium for instant deed transfer. And inform the barista, the moment the transaction clears, that the gentleman on the floor is barred from buying a tissue from this establishment.” A ripple of astonished murmurs spread across the floor. Garrick choked on his sobs, his mouth hanging slack. The barista, a young woman with a meticulously styled coiffure, stared at Bastian in frozen shock. Before anyone could process the sheer audacity, Bastian’s comm-unit buzzed with a confirmation. “Done,” Bastian announced, a gleam in his dark eyes. He leaned down, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “My apologies, Van-Dorn. It seems this particular establishment no longer caters to your… *sniffles*.” Zinnia felt a burst of indignation, a flash of pure, unadulterated annoyance. How *dare* he out-petty her? How *dare* he use her own Spire as his personal playground for corporate one-upmanship? Her nostrils flared, a sharp gleam hardening her stare. “You think that’s clever, Rohe?” Zinnia’s voice was dangerously low, a silken threat. “Snapping up a coffee cart to deny a man a tissue? How utterly pedestrian.” She whipped out her own comm-unit, tapping with furious precision. “Corvell Industries acquisition team. Secure title on the complete Solara Commercial Block. Every single retail unit, every single lease, every single square inch. Fifty million credits. Overbid any rivals by ten percent, close the transfer within three hundred seconds, and issue instant eviction notices to all current tenants.” Her gaze, sharp as a laser, fixed on Bastian. “Including, Rohe, your newly acquired ‘Percolate & Prosper’ cart. I want it gone. Now.” The barista, who had just started to process being owned by Rohe Industries, now looked like she’d seen a ghost. Garrick, still on his knees, gaped, his tear-soaked face a picture of utter bewilderment. Fifty million credits. Just to evict a coffee cart. Bastian let out a low, amused chuckle, his gaze tracking her with raw focus that raised the hairs on her arms. “Now *that*,” he purred, “is a statement. I believe I just fell a little more in love with your impulsiveness, Zinnia.” Zinnia ignored the provocative comment, her attention snapping back to Garrick, who was now scrambling to his feet, his dignity in tatters. “Zinnia, my darling, don’t listen to him! He’s trying to poison your mind! I know I’ve made mistakes, terrible mistakes, but I swear I can fix this! Give me five short minutes, Zinnia! Just a single conversation to explain how much I regret everything!” He looked desperate, his eyes pleading. “I’ll give you anything! My vintage Zenith hover-car! The ’78 model, the one I inherited from my grandfather, the one you always admired!” Zinnia paused. The Zenith ’78. Garrick’s most prized possession, a relic of pre-corporate Chrysos, a machine he polished himself every Sunday. The thought of him offering it, just to beg, was undeniably sweet. “The keys,” Zinnia stated, extending a manicured hand. “And you get your brief audience. Not a second more.” Garrick fumbled in his pocket, his hand trembling as he produced a heavy, ornate key-fob. He placed it in her palm as if it were spun gold. “Thank you, my love, thank you! I knew you still cared!” Zinnia’s lips thinned. “Don’t mistake calculated convenience for sentiment, Garrick. Tamsin, escort Mr. Van-Dorn to Conference Room Gamma. And ensure he has… ample tissues.” Tamsin, who had been observing the spectacle with a serene expression, stepped forward. “Of course, Madam CEO. Right this way, Mr. Van-Dorn.” She gave Zinnia a quick, almost imperceptible wink as she began to steer Garrick towards a side corridor. “A few moments, Zinnia! You won't regret it!” Garrick called over his shoulder, his voice filled with renewed, if misplaced, hope. “I’ll be right back!” Zinnia watched him go, then turned to Tamsin, who had discreetly returned. “And Tamsin,” Zinnia added, a mischievous glint in her eye, “instead of myself, I believe a life-sized cardboard cutout of my former, demure self should be waiting for him in Conference Room Gamma. With a thought bubble above her head that reads: ‘Remember when you still had your Zenith, Garrick?’” Tamsin’s lips twitched. “An inspired choice, Madam CEO. It will be done.” She swiftly disappeared to execute the order, leaving Zinnia and Bastian alone once more in the now eerily quiet lobby. “A cardboard cutout?” Bastian mused, a genuine laugh rumbling in his chest. “You truly are a woman of… particular tastes, Zinnia.” He looked at the keys in her hand. “And a Zenith ’78, no less. A fair trade, I suppose, for the cost of a block of prime real estate and the utter destruction of a man’s pride.” Zinnia merely ran a thumb over the cold metal of the key-fob. “Consider it a down payment, Rohe. On what, I’m not entirely sure yet. But I assure you, it will be significant.” Her comm-unit buzzed. It was a private message from Tamsin, encrypted for Zinnia’s eyes only. The text read: *Slush funds draining beautifully into ‘The Garrick Van-Dorn Foundation for Orphaned Hamsters.’ He’s utterly oblivious. Phase Two initiated.* Zinnia felt a surge of exhilaration. This was far more satisfying than she could have ever imagined. The game was truly on. Just as she was about to pocket the comm-unit, it buzzed again, this time with a frantic, system-wide security alert. Tamsin’s name flashed across the screen, indicating the message was from her, but the content was a direct relay from the Spire’s central security grid. The alert was tagged ‘Code Crimson.’ *Intruder Alert. Identity: Lissette Moreau. Bypassed primary biometric scanners. Currently on Level 1, Atrium entrance. Proceeding to main elevators with hostile intent.*

Petty Cash and Cardboard Cutouts