Chapter 1: Tea?

The trick isn’t to disappear. It’s to blend in.

You don’t need to shout to be noticed. You don’t need to bulldoze through conversations or make a spectacle of yourself. No, the real power lies in subtlety. In being just interesting enough that people remember you, but never in a way that makes them wonder about you. Smile when they expect it. Laugh when they need it. Listen more than you speak. Let them think they’re in control—because they never realize that you are.

That’s the art of it. That’s how you win.

I stir my tea, tracing the spoon in slow circles as the steam curls lazily into the air. It’s an idle motion, almost automatic, a way to pass the time while Patrick Delano does what he does best: talk.

He’s too eager, too loud. And the worst part? He thinks I’m listening.

Patrick: “You know, I don’t get why women act like they want a guy to be ‘sensitive.’ It’s power that gets you places, not all that emotional crap. Power is everything. You can’t get anywhere if you’re not in control. If you don’t dominate, you’re just wasting time.”

I bite back the urge to roll my eyes. It’s the same speech, the same tired words he trots out every time, convinced he’s the only one who understands how the world works. Men like him never realize that power isn’t about volume or force. Power is knowing when to speak, when to be quiet, when to stay three steps ahead. It’s a silent strength, an unseen hand that guides the conversation, not the one who shouts for attention.

Me: “Right, of course.”

I let the words leave my mouth, but I’m not thinking about them. I’m thinking about the way his jaw tightens when he says “power,” like the word is a shield. It’s almost tragic, how much he needs to believe in it.

Then, suddenly, he goes still.

His hand shoots to his throat. His eyes widen, the color draining from his face as his breath comes in quick, ragged gasps. His chest heaves, but nothing happens. No sound. No words. Just the frantic fluttering of a man who suddenly realizes he can’t breathe.

He stares at me.

Not for help. No, not exactly. His eyes are wide with something much darker. Desperation. Fear. And beneath it all, there’s that familiar arrogance—he’s still too proud to admit that he’s not in control. That he’s choking.

Patrick: “Help me…”

But there’s nothing to help. Nothing I can do.

I watch him. His face contorts with panic, his hand clawing at his neck as if he can pull the air back into his lungs. But I don’t move. I don’t flinch.

I wait.

I wait for him to understand what I already know—that he’s on his own now. That his power was always an illusion. And now, it’s slipping through his fingers, leaving him gasping and helpless in the middle of this crowded café.

One minute passes. His breath grows shallower. His eyes are locked on mine, pleading, begging me to do something. But I don’t.

Not yet.

I don’t care.

I’ve seen men like him before. They’re all the same, thinking they’re invincible, thinking their control can extend to everything and everyone around them. But when it comes to the basics, the things you can’t see coming—air, for instance—they fall apart just like everyone else.

I wait another thirty seconds. It’s long enough. He’s still staring at me, but now his face is pale, the panic starting to give way to something darker, something final.

Then, I stand. Slowly, deliberately, like I’ve just now noticed the situation unfolding around us.

Me: “He’s choking! Someone help!”

I raise my voice just enough to get attention, but not too loud—just a calm, reasonable tone that makes it seem like I’m finally reacting, like I’m just another concerned person.

The room stirs, people getting to their feet, crowding around Patrick. The frantic energy of the café shifts into a disjointed panic, hands slapping his back, voices calling for help. But none of them understand what’s happening. None of them know that it’s already too late.

I wait a few moments longer, watching as the room scrambles to revive him, trying all the things they think might work. But none of it matters.

Me: “I’ll call the ambulance!”

I pull out my phone, dialing 911 with an air of practiced calm, as if I’m just another passerby trying to help. His body jerks on the floor, his chest convulsing, but I’m not worried. I’ve already done my part. I’ve made sure that I won’t be blamed.

“Hello, 911? There’s a man here choking. He needs help, fast. Please send an ambulance immediately.”

I hang up before they can ask more questions. He’s still choking, but I’m not concerned. Not really.

The people around him are still trying to help, but I don’t see the point. He won’t survive this. I know it as surely as I know my own name. But I can’t let anyone else know that.

I look at him one last time. His eyes are barely open now, the frantic panic gone, replaced by a dull resignation. Patrick Delano, the man who thought he could control everything, now a broken shell of himself, gasping for the one thing he took for granted.

I don’t care that he’s dying.

But I can’t be blamed for it.

So, I play my part. I make the phone call. I act like I’m concerned. Like I care.

But inside, I’m already moving on.

This is what happens when you think you can control everything. This is what happens when you choke on your own arrogance.

I don’t bat an eye.

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