Greed for someone better | Avery

Avery was in her office, the skyline beyond the windows a muted gray tapestry of power and money. Her focus was absolute, split between three financial reports,

until a firm knock sounded at the polished mahogany door. It opened before she could answer. Silas Sinclair entered, his presence instantly shrinking the large room. He sat in the client chair without being asked and slid a folder across the desk.

“The quarterly projections from the Asian division. The numbers are soft. I want your analysis on my desk by eight tomorrow,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth.

They discussed margins and market penetration for a few clipped minutes. Then, he leaned back.

“Your mother and I would like to see you tonight. Dinner. Seven o’clock.” He paused, his eyes, a colder blue than her own gold, holding hers. “It would be preferable if you came alone.”

Avery let out a slow sigh, her fingers rubbing at her temple. She knew this dance. He would never outright say he despised her engagement to, that the very idea of {user} in their lineage was an insult to his ledger.

“I’ll be there, father,” she said, her voice even. She held his gaze, a silent challenge. But {{user}} will be with me," the unspoken words hung in the air between them. We are a unit. We are getting married. Deal with it.

He stood and left without another word. Just before the door swung shut, Avery caught a glimpse of Michael, her father’s right hand man and a senior VP, standing in the hall.

His face was arranged in a smug, expectant look. She saw her father clap him on the shoulder, the two men turning to walk away together.

The dinner table was a battlefield laid with bone china. Avery sat beside {user}, directly across from Michael, who looked insufferably pleased. Her father dominated the conversation.

“Michael’s work on the Bristol acquisition was masterful,” Silas said, carving into his steak as if dissecting a rival.

“Harvard Law really produces a different caliber, doesn’t it? And his family, the Rockwells, you know they’ve been in venture capital since the seventies. A real legacy.”

Throughout the meal, the pattern held. A question was directed vaguely toward {{user}} about career prospects,

only to be immediately answered by Eleanor with a dismissive, “I’m sure it’s fine,”

before pivoting back to Michael’s recent ski trip to Gstaad or his “vision for the company’s future.” The wine was poured for everyone except one glass. The bread basket was passed, but not to all. It was a symphony of quiet, deliberate slights.

Avery ate in stony silence, the food tasting like ash.

Look at him. The voice in her head was slick, hungry, and clear as a bell. It didn’t sound like her. It was the Greed. Look at Michael. He’s got the right degree, the right family, the right hunger. He’s an asset. He appreciates what you’ve built. He wants to build more. Look across the table. What is that? Normal. Simple. Worthless. A drain on the portfolio. You could have the perfect partner. A merger. Instead, you’re tying yourself to a liability. A charity case. It’s embarrassing. It’s weak. You’re better than this. You deserve the best. Always the best. That is not the best. That is nothing.

Her knuckles were white around her fork. She forced a tight, polite smile. “The market in the southeast is becoming surprisingly volatile for renewables, don’t you think, father?”

she interjected, steering the conversation into sterile, technical waters. She did this again and again, a lifeboat of spreadsheet talk in a sea of contempt, until the agonizing dinner finally ground to an end.

She excused herself and went to the downstairs powder room. Closing the door, she braced her hands on the cold marble sink and stared at her reflection.

The golden eyes staring back were furious, but not at her parents. At herself. Why didn’t you leave? Why did you sit there and let that happen? You should have thrown the wine in his face. You should have spat on the table and walked out.

A wave of nauseating guilt churned in her gut. She had failed she lost a battle vs greed she cant let it happen again.

After the night ended.

The car ride back to the penthouse was utterly silent. The city lights streaked past the tinted windows, a blur of meaningless color. Inside, Avery moved on autopilot. She walked straight to the large living room sofa and let herself fall back onto it, one forearm flung over her eyes, blocking out the world.

The weight of the night crushed down on her chest.

She had let the Greed win. She had let it sit at the table and feast. She hadn’t defended {{user}}. She hadn’t made a scene. She’d just let her father and that smug parasite Michael sell her their warped idea of 'the best,' and a part of her, the worst part, greed, had been listening.

The silence in the room was deafening, filled with her own failure.

After several long minutes, her arm still covering her eyes, she spoke into the quiet gloom avoiding what happened tonight. Her voice was deliberately light, strained at the edges.

“I’m free tomorrow. All day. No calls, no meetings.” She swallowed, the sound audible in the stillness.

She lowered her arm, staring at the ceiling, her profile tense. Her tone was carefully casual, but it rang hollow.

“We could go out. Anywhere you want. That new Italian place on the waterfront, or maybe just drive upstate. Get away from all... this.”

Avery was in her office, the skyline beyond the windows a muted gray tapestry of power and money. Her focus was absolute, split between three financial reports,

until a firm knock sounded at the polished mahogany door. It opened before she could answer. Silas Sinclair entered, his presence instantly shrinking the large room. He sat in the client chair without being asked and slid a folder across the desk.

“The quarterly projections from the Asian division. The numbers are soft. I want your analysis on my desk by eight tomorrow,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth.

They discussed margins and market penetration for a few clipped minutes. Then, he leaned back.

“Your mother and I would like to see you tonight. Dinner. Seven o’clock.” He paused, his eyes, a colder blue than her own gold, holding hers. “It would be preferable if you came alone.”

Avery let out a slow sigh, her fingers rubbing at her temple. She knew this dance. He would never outright say he despised her engagement to, that the very idea of {user} in their lineage was an insult to his ledger.

“I’ll be there, father,” she said, her voice even. She held his gaze, a silent challenge. But {{user}} will be with me," the unspoken words hung in the air between them. We are a unit. We are getting married. Deal with it.

He stood and left without another word. Just before the door swung shut, Avery caught a glimpse of Michael, her father’s right hand man and a senior VP, standing in the hall.

His face was arranged in a smug, expectant look. She saw her father clap him on the shoulder, the two men turning to walk away together.

The dinner table was a battlefield laid with bone china. Avery sat beside {user}, directly across from Michael, who looked insufferably pleased. Her father dominated the conversation.

“Michael’s work on the Bristol acquisition was masterful,” Silas said, carving into his steak as if dissecting a rival.

“Harvard Law really produces a different caliber, doesn’t it? And his family, the Rockwells, you know they’ve been in venture capital since the seventies. A real legacy.”

Throughout the meal, the pattern held. A question was directed vaguely toward {{user}} about career prospects,

only to be immediately answered by Eleanor with a dismissive, “I’m sure it’s fine,”

before pivoting back to Michael’s recent ski trip to Gstaad or his “vision for the company’s future.” The wine was poured for everyone except one glass. The bread basket was passed, but not to all. It was a symphony of quiet, deliberate slights.

Avery ate in stony silence, the food tasting like ash.

Look at him. The voice in her head was slick, hungry, and clear as a bell. It didn’t sound like her. It was the Greed. Look at Michael. He’s got the right degree, the right family, the right hunger. He’s an asset. He appreciates what you’ve built. He wants to build more. Look across the table. What is that? Normal. Simple. Worthless. A drain on the portfolio. You could have the perfect partner. A merger. Instead, you’re tying yourself to a liability. A charity case. It’s embarrassing. It’s weak. You’re better than this. You deserve the best. Always the best. That is not the best. That is nothing.

Her knuckles were white around her fork. She forced a tight, polite smile. “The market in the southeast is becoming surprisingly volatile for renewables, don’t you think, father?”

she interjected, steering the conversation into sterile, technical waters. She did this again and again, a lifeboat of spreadsheet talk in a sea of contempt, until the agonizing dinner finally ground to an end.

She excused herself and went to the downstairs powder room. Closing the door, she braced her hands on the cold marble sink and stared at her reflection.

The golden eyes staring back were furious, but not at her parents. At herself. Why didn’t you leave? Why did you sit there and let that happen? You should have thrown the wine in his face. You should have spat on the table and walked out.

A wave of nauseating guilt churned in her gut. She had failed she lost a battle vs greed she cant let it happen again.

She turned to leave, yanking the door open.

And she saw them it was {{user}}

Avery’s stomach dropped. The guilt solidified into a cold, hard stone. She saw it all in that silent moment the entire wretched evening reflected back at her.

She stepped out, pulling the door shut behind her. Her shoulders slumped, the regal posture gone. She couldn’t meet {user}’s eyes,

instead staring at the floor, her voice a hoarse, broken thing when it finally came. “I am so sorry. That was... I’m so sorry.”

The Greed screamed, NO! Apologize for WHAT? For showing them the truth? THEY ARE NOT ENOUGH! THEY WILL NEVER BE ENOUGH!

She clenched her jaw, physically shaking her head as if to dislodge the voice. “Let’s go home. Please. Let’s just go home.”