Chapter 4: The Asserted Identity

I now had one week to destroy the conditioned fear of rejection, which Liv had called the ‘primal programming for appeasement.’ I needed to find a physical way to embody the right to interrupt Marcus Thorne, but I also needed a deeper psychological shift to make the Ask an assertion instead of a plea. If I failed this next time, the only way out of my life would close completely. I couldn’t let that happen. Liv was the only person who saw my failure as data worth analyzing, and that attention felt like the most precious commodity in my controlled, meticulous world.

I spent the next two days dissecting the first failure, reviewing the entire interaction in the privacy of my leather notebook. I wrote down the searing humiliation, the way Marcus’s fury made my body physically recoil, and the automatic apology that sprang from my lips before my brain even registered the mistake. The details were painful, and I forced myself to relive them, knowing that pain was fuel. Liv was right. The failure was completely predictable because my fear of social rebuke was stronger than my desire for autonomy.

I also spent time researching Marcus Thorne. I didn’t just rely on Liv’s initial assessment. I needed to understand the architecture of his arrogance, which might give me the precise leverage I needed. I found multiple social media accounts, all highly curated, showing him at high-end events, always positioned next to someone clearly more established and powerful.

He existed entirely to ascend, and that ascension was his single greatest vulnerability.

I needed to approach him not as a supplicant seeking direction, but as a temporary, useful nuisance that he couldn’t immediately dismiss without sacrificing some social capital. The request, the Ask itself, needed to be reframed as a small test of his influence, something only he could easily facilitate, thereby validating his perceived importance.

I was already constructing the entire scenario down to the phrasing and the precise timing. I considered returning to his desk and executing the second Ask on the weekend, but Liv’s structure was crucial. She had commanded one full week for preparation because she knew this wasn't about the transaction. This was about replacing my wiring. I had to focus on the next assignment, not retrying the one I already failed. I needed a harder, higher-stakes trial run.

The next text from Liv didn’t arrive until Tuesday afternoon, several days after my confession. I had been checking my phone nervously, afraid she’d decided I wasn’t worth the effort.

The notification finally flashed on my screen: New Assignment. Tonight. 8:00 PM. Dress: Impressive.

No further context was given, which caused a fresh spike of anxiety. I was in the middle of Contract Law preparation, surrounded by my usual beige notebooks and color-coded tabs. The thought of stepping out of this structured world into Liv’s completely unstructured, high-risk reality was terrifying, but the anticipation was powerful enough to drown out the academic anxiety completely.

I texted back immediately, asking for the location.

The Annual Associates Mixer, hosted by Sterling & Rowe (S&R).

Sterling & Rowe was one of the premier corporate law firms in the city, known for its ruthless recruitment process. The Associates Mixer was an elite event; undergraduates were rarely, if ever, invited unless they had exceptional connections or were the children of equity partners. My parents had only ever managed to get me invited to two mid-level mixers for regional firms, where the conversation revolved entirely around grading curves and summer analyst programs. This was a completely different league.

I typed out a question about my credentials. I don’t have an invite.

You don’t need an invite, Emma. You need an identity, Liv replied almost instantly. Details attached.

The attachment contained two items: a brief profile of a woman named ‘Eliza Thorne’ (no relation to Marcus, thankfully) and a single mission objective.

Eliza Thorne was described as a recent graduate of Columbia with a family background in private equity restructuring in New York, currently consulting for an offshore digital asset management fund. It was the absolute opposite of my existence. The profile was detailed enough to pass a casual vetting and ambiguous enough to avoid deep inspection.

The assignment was deceptively benign:

Assignment 2: The Manufactured Value

Target: Charles Vance (Senior Partner, M&A Division, S&R). Venue: The Associates Mixer (Grand Ballroom, Omni Hotel). Action: Establish a conversation with Vance. Using the persona of Eliza Thorne, obtain specific, confidential-seeming information about S&R’s strategy regarding a current merger involving OmniCorp—details that only a highly placed insider would know. The query must imply a high-level interest, and Vance must feel compelled to share something, if only to impress his perceived peer. Objective: To feel the exhilarating lack of consequence that comes from manufacturing a valuable identity and extracting meaningful data purely through performance. The information’s literal value is irrelevant; your success at obtaining it is the lesson.

The pressure of performing an entirely fabricated identity in front of some of the city’s most established power brokers was enormous, more complex than confronting Marcus directly. This required sustained, high-level social deception, not just a ten-second Ask.

I glanced at the clock. I had four hours to become ‘Eliza Thorne.’

I drove home immediately, carefully navigating the evening traffic. Even the act of altering my routine felt intoxicating. I pulled into the sanitized, well-paved driveway of my parents’ home, the facade of normalcy already wearing thin. I found my mother in the kitchen, meticulously portioning out dinner servings.

“You’re home late,” she observed, her voice tight with subtle disapproval. “You missed my text about your professor canceling office hours. You should be using that time for your Law Review application essays.”

“I’m planning on it,” I said, trying to infuse my voice with casual control, something Liv had demonstrated with the barista. "I actually have a last-minute networking event tonight that I need to attend. It's important."

My mother put down the serving spoon. Her focus sharpened instantly.

“Another mixer?” she asked, suspicion evident in her tone. “Which firm? And why wasn’t this in your schedule? You know coordination is necessary, Emma.”

The automatic impulse was to minimize the event, to placate her with details. Instead, I remembered Liv’s teaching: You don’t ask politely, you demand nicely. I chose a level of detail that would overwhelm her without giving away the truth.

“It’s a specific event at the Omni,” I explained, maintaining unwavering eye contact. “It was necessary and quick turnaround. It’s too complex to explain the necessary context right now, but it relates directly to M&A. I won’t be home before midnight. Please don’t wait up.”

The M&A terminology and the confident, firm delivery seemed to short-circuit her usual cross-examination. She hadn’t expected me to talk about her carefully preserved schedule with such decisive finality. My mother looked momentarily stunned, unable to reconcile the sudden assertiveness with her perception of me.

“Well, you need to wear something appropriate,” she finally managed, adjusting her concern to the superficial. “You can’t go to an event like that in those clothes.”

I glanced down at my practical slacks and simple, functional blouse.

“I’ve already planned my attire,” I lied smoothly, heading toward the stairs. “I’ll be quick. I need complete focus tonight, so please don’t call.”

I had established a boundary and enforced it. The slight tremor in her voice as I walked away was evidence that the erosion of her control had begun.

Upstairs, I faced my closet, stocked entirely with the expensive but neutral palette preferred by my parents: clothes that suggested professionalism and conformity. None of it screamed ‘offshore asset management.’ The performance of Eliza Thorne required a visual transformation.

I managed to assemble an outfit that suggested sophisticated confidence. I used carefully applied makeup to sharpen my features, turning my usual neat, timid appearance into something angular and intimidating. The shoes were the hardest part: I found a pair of thin, high heels my mother had insisted I buy for a wedding and wore them around my bedroom, forcing myself to overcome the wobbling until my posture felt locked and rigid.

When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized the face staring back. The eyes were Emma’s, filled with nervous exhilaration, but the structure of the face, the straight posture, and the expensive-looking clothes belonged entirely to the fabricated persona. Eliza Thorne looked like a creature accustomed to high-stakes environments and absolute control. I held the image for a long moment, memorizing the feeling of this asserted identity.

I felt a sudden, urgent need for Liv’s presence, the stabilizing force I needed to walk into the ballroom with that level of commitment.

I drove the short distance to the Omni Hotel. I parked away from the valet to avoid scrutiny, then walked toward the grand entrance, rehearsing the small details of Eliza Thorne's background in my head: Columbia, private equity consulting, digital assets. These were not just facts; they were armor.

As I entered the cavernous, glittering ballroom, the sheer scale of the event was overwhelming. Hundreds of people, dressed in impeccable suits and gowns, moved beneath chandeliers that dripped cold, expensive light. The room smelled of ambition, aged whiskey, and high-end textiles. Everyone present possessed the easy entitlement I had only seen fragments of in Marcus Thorne.

I felt a wave of immediate intimidation, the same fear that had paralyzed me at Marcus’s desk. I had to find Liv.

My phone vibrated in the small, expensive-looking clutch I carried. It was a message from Liv.

I am not here. I am across the street in the bar at the Clarion. You are on your own.

My stomach instantly seized with cold dread. On my own? The assignment suddenly felt ten times harder. Liv had created the conditions for success, but she had enforced the autonomy by physical removal.

Find Vance. Assert Eliza. Get the data. Report back, Liv’s text concluded.

I quickly looked around, desperately searching for Charles Vance. The problem was that every man in the room seemed to radiate the same senior-partner energy. I had only the vague, professional headshot Liv had provided.

I spotted him finally near a cluster of servers, sipping champagne. Vance was precisely as expected: mid-fifties, sharp grey suit, a face that looked permanently etched with the fatigue of closing enormous, complex deals. He was talking intensely with a much younger woman who seemed desperate to keep up.

I realized I couldn’t just march up and interrupt this conversation casually. Eliza Thorne would never interrupt awkwardly; she would assert her presence as a natural continuation of the flow.

I found a nearby server and, without breaking stride, I took a glass of sparkling water, ignoring the offered champagne, which seemed too simple for Eliza. I needed to adopt the posture of a person who belonged there.

I walked toward Vance, feeling the tight fit of the tailored clothes and the slight wobble of the heels. I forced myself to maintain the rigid, confident smile I had practiced in the mirror.

I didn’t approach Vance directly. Instead, I stopped near the edge of their conversational radius, focusing intensely on the architectural details overhead, projecting an aura of someone only momentarily distracted by their conversation, waiting for a natural break.

The young woman talking to Vance laughed too loudly at something he said, which created a small, awkward silence. That was my opening.

I turned toward them, offering a small, practiced nod that acknowledged their conversation without apologizing for the intrusion.

“Vance, Charles Vance, isn’t it?” I asked, using the assumed familiarity that Eliza Thorne would possess. My voice came out lower than usual, carrying the practiced steadiness of hours of mental rehearsal.

Vance turned, his professional veneer instantly snapping into place. He gave me the quick, assessing glance of a person tallying my perceived net worth and utility.

“Yes, I am,” he said, extending a hand more out of habit than genuine invitation.

I took his hand, using a firm, practiced grip. “Vance. Eliza Thorne. I’m quite pleased to finally catch up to you here. I wasn’t sure if you’d be making an appearance this late.”

The implied knowledge—that I knew his social habits and had a reason to seek him out—immediately repositioned our interaction. He recognized the name ‘Thorne,’ which added the necessary layer of prestige.

“Thorne,” Vance repeated, his brow furrowing slightly, trying to place the fabricated association. “Are you with the New York office, then?”

“No, not corporate law for me,” I said, dismissing the suggestion with a subtle tone of superiority. “I’m consulting for an asset management fund—offshore, mostly. We’re tracking the current landscape, especially anything relating to complex liquidity structures.”

I dropped a few pieces of high-level jargon that Liv had quickly briefed me on. The complexity of the terms was meant to convey competence, not invitation for dialogue.

Vance immediately looked interested. The younger woman, realizing she’d become irrelevant, shifted uncomfortably, then excused herself with awkward speed. My assertion of identity had effectively terminated her claim on his attention. That small, clinical power rush was immediate and electrifying.

The field was now clear. I had successfully replaced the other woman in his sphere of attention, purely through my performance.

Vance instantly moved into networking mode. “Offshore asset management. Right. That’s an interesting space right now, particularly with the recent regulatory noise around digital securities. You clearly have your finger on the pulse.”

I offered a small, knowing smile. “We’re trying to stay ahead of the regulatory noise, frankly. Which brings me to why I wanted to connect tonight, Vance. I have a rather specific, internal question for you, if I may. Purely high-level context.”

I leaned in slightly, positioning myself closer. I made my voice intimate, implying shared confidence.

“We’ve been analyzing the OmniCorp strategic purchase, the M&A division,” I said, using the exact language Liv had provided. “Our internal analysis suggests that S&R—your firm, clearly—must be heavily prioritizing the underlying real estate assets versus the media portfolio for the overall corporate valuation. Is that a correct read of the overall valuation strategy, or are you significantly overbidding for the sheer sake of market position?”

The question was designed to do two things: first, to demonstrate deep, insider knowledge (since S&R's internal strategy wasn't public), and second, to challenge his firm's strategy, which would compel him to defend their position. I had to force his compliance not just in talking to me, but in giving me information.

Vance’s reaction was exactly what Liv predicted. He didn't deny my knowledge. He didn’t question my premise. He saw me as a peer, or a valuable future contact, and felt compelled to engage.

He looked around quickly, checking that nobody was listening intently, then lowered his voice.

“Thorne, that’s a very perceptive question,” he said, offering a conspiratorial tone. “And look, I can’t discuss specifics of the bid structure, obviously. Complete lockdown. But I can tell you that you are correct in assuming that the media portfolio is, frankly, secondary. We aren’t interested in the operational liabilities. We are purely monetizing the geographic footprint, particularly everything in the Northeast corridor.”

He paused, testing my reaction.

“The deal hinges on the favorable zoning exemptions,” I stated, pushing him for the specific, confidential-seeming data. “Not just the location itself. The exemption.”

Vance hesitated, weighing the risk of giving actual insider information versus the risk of appearing uninformed or uncooperative to ‘Eliza Thorne.’ He chose to impress the perceived peer.

He gave me a tight, affirmative nod. “We negotiated that extension aggressively. You understand the core value proposition, then. It explains the premium.”

The specific information—the confirmation that the deal hinged on the aggressiveness of the negotiated zoning extension—was exactly what Liv had requested. It was confidential, specific, and something only an M&A Senior Partner would instinctively know. It didn’t matter what OmniCorp was doing; what mattered was that I had extracted verifiable insider data using a manufactured identity and pure self-assertion.

I pulled back slightly, shifting the energy. “That’s incredibly helpful, Vance. It confirms our initial read on the regulatory exposure. I appreciate you clarifying the internal prioritization.”

I offered a brief, final smile, positioning my departure immediately. “I must attend to another contact now, but I truly enjoyed our brief chat. I will be in touch.”

I didn’t wait for his response. I simply turned and walked away, moving with the same practiced, deliberate pace. I didn’t look back, maintaining the illusion of a busy, important person who had just conducted a necessary transaction and was already moving to the next one.

As soon as I reached the edge of the ballroom and slipped into a quiet, shadowed corridor near the coat check, the adrenaline hit me completely. My hands were shaking violently, and my breath hitched. I leaned against the cold marble wall, pulling out my phone.

The entire exchange had lasted under three minutes. I had performed a professional identity, faced down a sophisticated opponent, and extracted specific value. The rush of mastery was immediate and intoxicating. It wasn’t a sense of accomplishment in the academic sense; it was a dizzying realization that I could be anyone, anywhere, if I only controlled the performance.

I quickly texted Liv the detailed information, precisely recounting Vance’s words, especially the mention of the aggressively negotiated zoning extension.

I received a single, devastatingly validating response: Excellent. Now come meet me.

I felt a surge of intense relief that eclipsed the fear. Liv wasn’t just watching the conditions; she was grading my performance. I hadn’t failed the Ask this time. I had moved beyond the clumsy failure with Marcus Thorne and had successfully manufactured and asserted value.

I quickly exited the hotel and made my way across the street to the Clarion Hotel bar, which was darker and emptier than the Omni’s glittering ballroom.

Liv sat at a small, intimate table far in the back, nursing an amber-colored drink. She was dressed simply in a dark, slightly metallic slip dress that shimmered under the low lighting, making her look both casual and impossibly sophisticated. She hadn’t been checking my progress; she had been patiently waiting for my success.

When I sat down, I realized I was still breathing heavily, my heart thumping against my ribs.

“You’re still wearing Eliza,” Liv observed, her inspection entirely clinical. “Take her off, Emma. Sit down and tell me what you felt.”

I physically had to force myself to soften the rigid posture. I pulled a bobby pin out of my tight updo, letting a few strands fall, physically discarding the ‘Eliza Thorne’ persona.

“It was terrifying at first,” I confessed, my voice still slightly breathless. “Walking in, knowing I didn’t belong. Then, when he turned his attention to me, when I saw the other woman shrink away—I felt a switch flip. It wasn’t fear. It was control.”

“Tell me about the switch,” Liv prompted, taking a slow sip of her drink.

“I realized that his status, his importance, meant nothing,” I explained, the words tumbling out as I tried to process the psychological shift. “It meant nothing as long as I performed competence. He didn’t care who I was; he only cared about the perceived value I assigned to myself. I wasn’t begging for attention; I was demanding transaction.”

Liv nodded slowly, approvingly. “The syntax of autonomy, refined. You made him stop his life not out of inconvenience, but out of necessity. You forced him to validate his own importance to a perceived peer. He gave you the precise piece of information because he was compensating for the challenge you presented to his authority.”

The analysis was sharp, and it confirmed the exhilarating conclusion I had reached myself: the rules of social engagement were entirely negotiable if one had the courage to rewrite them. I hadn’t earned the information through academic rigor or professional networking; I had simply taken it through performance and assertion.

“It felt… completely different from the failure with Marcus,” I realized, recounting the previous attempt.

“Of course it did,” Liv stated. “Marcus was an amateur, relying on brute social aggression. Vance is a professional, relying on sophisticated transactional rules. You treated Marcus as authority, and he punished you for trespassing. You treated Vance as a functional equal, and he responded with collaboration, albeit for self-serving reasons. The performance dictates the outcome, Emma.”

Liv reached across the table and touched my hand lightly, the contact sending a sharp jolt of validation through me. “You didn’t just execute the assignment; you assimilated the lesson. Congratulations, Emma. You’ve earned the next step.”

I felt a giddy sense of success, the craving for her approval thoroughly satisfied. The exhilaration from the interaction was still pulsing through my veins. It was infinitely better than the dry satisfaction of a perfect grade on a contract law exam.

The post-mortem analysis of Assignment 2 lasted well past midnight. I described every micro-expression on Vance’s face, every subtle shift in my posture, and the moment I realized the high heels gave Eliza Thorne the necessary physical arrogance that Emma lacked. Liv listened intently, offering corrections only when my analysis drifted into self-criticism instead of objective assessment. She demanded precision in the observation, rejecting any attempt to simplify the complexity of the professional facade. The hours passed quickly, filled with this intense, analytical intimacy that I now found absolutely addictive.

When I finally drove back, the city streets were deserted. It was nearly 2:00 AM. I knew my parents would be awake, probably escalating into quiet, anxious fear.

I had lied about the late-night study session again, and this time, the lie was structurally impossible to maintain. No mandatory study session at the law school would last until 2:00 AM.

As I pulled into the driveway, the house was dark, but I saw the faint strip of light under the master bedroom door. I knew exactly what awaited me: the quiet, crushing concern that was far worse than outright anger.

I walked into the house, trying to move silently. The silence was immediately broken by the sound of my father approaching the landing at the top of the stairs. He wore a heavy robe, his hair mussed from disturbed sleep.

“Emma,” he said, his voice low, heavy with disappointment and anxiety. “Two o’clock in the morning. Where have you been?”

The pressure of his gaze, the weight of his parental expectation, threatened to initiate the psychological reversion I suffered after the Marcus Thorne incident. I had to force myself to stand firm. I could not collapse back into the apologetic student.

“I told Mom I had an M&A networking event,” I said, keeping my posture straight, trying to project the calm assertion of Eliza Thorne.

“Yes, and your mother was quite anxious about it, since it wasn’t on your schedule,” my father responded, descending the steps slowly, giving his words weight. “We need accountability, Emma. A law student doesn’t simply drop off the map without a structured explanation for six hours. You know that.”

He was using the language of career responsibility, the vocabulary of the cage.

“I apologize that I couldn’t coordinate better, but the event was essential,” I countered, using the exact framing Liv had taught me about asserting boundaries. I made the lack of planning sound like a necessary professional sacrifice. “I obtained crucial high-level context that I wouldn’t have received otherwise. Sometimes networking doesn’t adhere to academic timelines, Dad. This was necessary.”

My father stopped halfway down the stairs. The assertive use of professional jargon and the calm certainty in my voice seemed to derail his carefully prepared lecture. He had expected a fearful confession or a detailed explanation of where I had been. He hadn’t expected the sudden, cool professionalism. He was watching me with a new, hesitant intensity, noticing the shift in my appearance, the confident set of my jaw.

He didn’t know how to navigate this Emma, the Emma who was claiming the autonomy he needed her to earn. He noticed the erosion.

“I just want to know you’re safe, Emma,” he finally said, retreating from the confrontation.

“I am completely safe,” I assured him. “I was prioritizing my career over my curfew, which is what you and Mom always encouraged.”

It was technically true, just not in the way he understood. The lie felt potent, sharp, and exhilaratingly effective. It worked because he was forced to choose between questioning my safety and questioning my professional ambition, the latter being untouchable in his hierarchy of values.

He didn’t push any further. He simply nodded curtly and retreated back upstairs, the tension easing slightly from his shoulders, but the seed of anxiety planted deeply in his mind.

I walked to my room, closing the door quietly. The exhilaration of facing him down, of asserting a new boundary and winning a small but significant battle, was almost as powerful as the success in the ballroom. My professional life, defined by my parents’ expectations, was rapidly eroding, and for the first time, I felt I was controlling the demolition. The cage was weakening. I fell asleep quickly, still infused with the thrilling residue of performance and control, knowing I had proved to both Liv and myself that the timid student was giving way to someone capable of ruthless assertion. The thought of waiting an entire week for the next assignment felt unbearable already, and I had nearly three days until the confrontation with Marcus Thorne. I didn’t want to go back to the ordinary pace of life; I needed the intense, analytical scrutiny of Liv and the electrifying rush of the next boundary broken. The curriculum had replaced my stability, and I was deeply addicted to the instability it created in my old world. I picked up the leather notebook from my desk and placed it under my pillow, the knowledge that I had successfully navigated the complexities of Assignment 2: The Manufactured Value giving me a sense of dangerous satisfaction that had no ethical parallel in my former life. I fully expected Liv to reward this success with an even higher-stakes task soon enough, and I found myself intensely anticipating the call, the venue, and the moment when I would next violate an unwritten rule of the world

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