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“Alright, Señora Presidenta, time for lunch.” Madam President. She says, casually strolling into my office. “Otherwise, you’ll get hangry and turn poor Oliver into an ice sculpture with your freaky ice queen magic.”

I scowl. “I’m not an ice queen.”

“You don’t really get a choice in what the staff calls you behind your back, Elsie.” Selene giggles while fiddling with my perfectly arranged bookshelves.

“Do they really call me the ice queen?” I ask, rising to fix the mess she’s made.

“Oh, don’t take it personally. Everyone in the industry thinks of you that way. They’re all terrified of you.” Selene tosses all this out casually before turning to me with a wide grin. “It’s what makes you a badass CEO and why absolutely no one fucks with you.”

Seeing my stricken face, Selene’s victorious smile drops.

“Oh, Presidenta. It’s a good thing!” President. She says in a cheerful tone as she marches over to my pile of bags to grab my purse.

We’ve had this conversation several times now: how the world perceives me as cold and unfeeling. She’s right, though. I can’t help how others see or think of me.

“Plus, you have your friends from The Playground. You don’t need the approval of others.” She continues.

“They’re club friends.” I protest.

“Yeah. They’re people who get you, have similar values to you, and don’t judge you for who you are.” Selene says reassuringly. “Though, I will say, whatever you and Marshall got up to a few weekends ago? It’s made you... warmer or something. You’re happier when you’re well fucked.”

I scoff, trying to hide my rising panic at the mention of Marshall. “I would hope so.”

“It’s true!” She cries. “Nothing like a good steamy fuck to thaw out the ice queen.”

“No comment.”

“Oh. You’re definitely commenting at lunch. You’ve been holding out on me, and after whatever went down at my engagement party with our fuckboy dragon, Mr. Law? I want the tea.” She says, pushing me out the door in front of her. “So, we’re going to lunch at that steak place with the filet mignon you love, and you’re going to tell me all about your ‘arrangement.’ Right?”

“Fine. But no to the steak. I can’t stand the smell right now.” I acquiesce.

“Okay…” She says, drawing out the vowels. “But you’re paying.”

Her confident strides down the hall leave me hurrying to catch up with her.

“Well, that doesn’t seem fair.” I toss out when I meet her at the elevator.

“Life’s not fair, Presidenta.” She throws over her shoulder as we enter the lift. “It’s your hot gossip tax. And it’s time for you to spill.”

“Fine. But you have to promise to keep this to yourself.” I tell her, but she just rolls her eyes at me. “I mean it, Selene.”

Her brow furrows, and there’s a moment of silence before she speaks. “Sure. I promise.”

“Thank you.” I sigh in relief.

Selene regales me with a few work-related topics on our drive over to the restaurant, but she mostly tells me about plans for her upcoming wedding. Soon enough, we’re seated at one of our favorite places, but she wastes no time jumping into what she really wants to know once we’ve placed our orders.

“Spill.” She commands, delicately laying her napkin in her lap. “What happened with Marshall?”

I hesitate, not sure how much I want to share with her right now.

I settle on a partial truth. “We slept together. That’s all.”

“Nope.” She scolds as the waiter places our starter salads before us. “No holding out on me. I want the full details.”

Forking a bunch of lettuce and shoving it in my mouth, I ignore her question for a minute.

“Elsie,” Selene says, warning in her tone.

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