The Way We Talk

Enemy (Little Talks #12)

Prompt:  "I want to help."

It's too late for a meeting, she decides as she disembarks the elevator on the top floor of Queen Consolidated.  Through the window, she can see the cloudy, starless night, and she takes a moment to ponder her dilemma.  The moment passes quickly, though, and then she is once again moving toward her goal, in more ways than one.

It takes her longer to get to the meeting place than expected, as she isn't used to walking past the CEO's office and the glass walls that are her very opposite in transparency.  Instead, she traverses further down the hall, to where there are no glass-walled offices.  When she stops, it's in the only office occupied at this time of night.

Isabel Rochev is a sight to behold even in the dark office, her ebony locks straight, and not a hair out of place.  Her dress is vibrantly crimson, and she is the epitome of the female executive.  Isabel casts her eyes upon her visitor with interest, her expression betraying nothing.  "What do you want?" she asks, barely looking up from her paperwork.

Her visitor makes herself at home, sitting in one of the two guest chairs.  That is the question, isn't it?  What she wants, though, is something she can no longer have.  It was just another in a series of things stolen from her, and God knows she's lost enough in the past few years.  But it's different this time.

This time, she wants it back.

Instead of answering, she replies with her own question, "What do you know of Felicity Smoak?"  She keeps her expression neutral, her voice giving nothing of her plans and schemes away.  This, according to Oliver Queen, is exactly what gets her into trouble in the first place.  While she can't necessarily disagree with him, she thinks it best to play to her strengths.  Deception is one of those.

The question gains Isabel's attention only long enough for her to roll her eyes.  "She's just another blonde secretary sleeping her way to the top," she says stiffly, dismissively.  But there's an undertone that the other woman doesn't miss.  Clearly no love has been lost in that particular relationship.  Isabel belies her interest, though, when she finally asks, "What about her?"

"She took something from me," is all she says.  "Something that can't be returned or repaired.  I want her to pay for that."  The biting anger comes out of her this time, so she looks downward for a moment as she attempts to regain composure.  It would not do well for this to appear personal.  And, in the same sense that one should not bleed around sharks, it is also unwise to show any sort of weakness to Isabel Rochev.

The papers fall onto the desk this time, and Isabel neatly folds her hands on top of them, looking all the more like the CEO Queen Consolidated needs, loathe as her guest is to admit it.  "I know some people," she says shrewdly, her tone calculating, "but making her disappear wouldn't come cheap.  And I think we both know that you don't have that kind of money.  That vindictive, manipulative side comes out as she adds, "Well, not anymore."

The other woman shakes her head.  "Oh, no, Ms. Rochev," she corrects, "the last thing I want Felicity Smaok to do is disappear.  She has the ear of the CEO of this company, and she's causing him to make some... terrible decisions."  She too folds her hands, but over her lap.  "I want her humiliated, Ms. Rochev.  I want her validity, sanity, and competency doubted by everyone—and I do mean everyone."

Isabel Rochev isn't a fool, so her visitor doesn't see any need to explain why the situation would be advantageous.  Losing Felicity would cripple Oliver, both emotionally and professionally, and that would present an opportunity for Isabel.  The woman across from her knows she's very nearly selling her soul to the devil, but some crimes simply can't go unpunished.  And, after all, there is that saying about a woman scorned.

She is most decidedly a woman scorned.

As, apparently, is Isabel.  She nods once to herself before finally saying, "I want to help."  She offers nothing more, her expression just as concealed as her guest's.  Isabel Rochev is as poised and calculating as the other woman has been led to believe, and she finds that she likes this quality.  It's always best, after all, to have a business partner who doesn't let emotions get in the way.

The other woman smiles.  "I thought you might," she admits.  Rising from her seat, she continues, "I'll contact you with details once everything is arranged.  I trust you can keep a secrets?"  The question is rhetorical, and, as such, it goes unanswered.  "Goodnight, Ms. Rochev."

She's halfway out the door before she hears the response:  "My business partners call me Isabel."  Again, there is no emotional quality, no familiarity.  It's all just simply business.

The other woman turns with a flourish and a polished smile.  "Then I see no reason why you can't call me Moira."