Page 50 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
She studies me — narrow eyes, alert mind — and for a moment I see that brilliant, calculating woman who built her father’s legacy from a mess most people would have run from.
I almost smile.
But instead I just nod.
Because what she doesn’t know yet — but what I know deep in my bones — is this:
Slipping.
Isn’t his style.
Not when he thinks he’s already won.
CHAPTER 10
YARA
Itaste metal.
Not literally — but close enough that I swear the air in the negotiation room tastes like blood against the tongue, bitter and burning.
The walls are glass and steel, too bright, too clean — a sterile cathedral built for spreadsheets and corporate outcomes. Yet the tension in here is heavier than any battlefield I’ve ever strategized through.
Dr. Foster sits across the table from me, his steely gaze fixed as though this entire negotiation is a chess match andI’mthe piece about to be sacrificed.
The room smells like recycled air and strong coffee, but underneath it all? Something acrid. Anxiety. Debt. Fear dressed up in a tailored suit.
“This deal,” Foster says, voice smooth as sedative, “is not merely beneficial. It’snecessary.”
He pushes a stack of holo-contracts toward me — each glowing line like a razor ready to cut if I’m not careful.
I lift my comm unit and glance at the figures again — CY8’s debt is massive, stacked like a tower teetering under its ownweight. Foster’s cyberprosthetics initiative could be a lifeline — or the rope that finishes the job.
“You speak of necessity,” I say, keeping my voice calm, “but this proposal demands more concessions than CY8 can afford.”
He tilts his head — sympathetic, practiced, like he’s comforting an injured animal.
“Yara,” he says, “I understand your father’s legacy weighs heavy on your decisions. But these veterans — they deserve technology to heal, not bureaucratic delay.”
I don’t argue with thepurpose.I argue with theprice.
“I’m here to support veterans,” I say. “But not at the expense of every division and innovation CY8 has fought to sustain.”
He doesn’t flinch.
“You misunderstand,” Foster says, leaning forward, fingers tapping the glass table. “I’m not asking you tosacrificeyour company. I’m asking you toinvestin their future. Consider the optics. Consider the goodwill. The Combine Board watches not just numbers, but signals.”
Foster’s words are like poison dipped in honey — sweet to hear, lethal underneath.
And I feel that honey-sweet stick in my throat.
I glance down at the contract again. The terms are draconian — ceding control of entire divisions, opening proprietary R&D to regulatory inspection, phased payouts that benefit Foster’s programs at every corner.
“It’s too steep,” I say.
“It’s not steep — it’sshared investment,” he corrects, smile tight. “But without movement on your part, we risk losing patience.”
I canfeelwhat he’s saying:
