Chapter 11 Ten #2
"Isaiah, have the option three documentation ready but keep it in my private safe. If we need it, I don't want a paper trail until the last possible moment."
"Understood."
"Sloane, draft talking points for the Pentagon call. Emphasize project timeline confidence while leaving room to adjust deliverables if recovery operations extend beyond initial projections."
"I'll have them on your tablet before you exit the elevator."
I dismissed them with a gesture, and they scattered to their assigned tasks, dispersing across the tarmac toward waiting vehicles and communication stations. Only Callum remained, opening the Bentley's door as we approached.
"Will you require anything else during transit, sir?"
"No, make sure Reid's package is comprehensive. I don't want to discover gaps when I'm briefing Xavier."
"Already verified, sir. It's thorough."
"Then why are you still standing here?"
Callum nodded and stepped away, unoffended by my dismissal because he understood my methods.
What he didn't understand was that the harshness in my voice had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the man sliding into the Bentley's back seat without acknowledging that I'd just orchestrated six simultaneous work streams in the time it took to walk from the aircraft to the car.
Algerone hadn't even looked up from his tablet.
The Bentley's interior gleamed pristine with black leather seats, privacy partition raised, and temperature set to Algerone's preference though I'd always found it too cold.
A crystal decanter of Macallan waited in the console with two glasses beside it, and the sight of that second glass made something twist in my chest.
I settled into the seat across from Algerone, maintaining maximum distance. My hands found the medical case in my jacket pocket. I prepared his afternoon dose of anti-inflammatories, nerve supplement, and the analgesic Dr. Pierce had added last month.
I held them out with the water Callum had stocked at room temperature.
He took them without comment or even a glance in my direction. His fingers didn't brush mine during the exchange, a careful avoidance that required deliberate effort.
"The Pentagon call is in two hours," I said, filling the silence with business. "Shaw has liquidated approximately sixteen million in assets over the past twelve hours. The pattern suggests he's preparing to relocate or make major acquisitions."
"Your assessment?" His voice carried no inflection or warmth.
"He's preparing to move the prototype. The Banshee requires specialized equipment for transportation and testing. Three shell companies in the Caymans have received significant transfers."
I continued the briefing, laying out options with the thoroughness I'd applied to every presentation for thirty-two years.
He selected option two, as I'd anticipated.
Through the window, Spade Tower grew larger against the morning sky, forty-one stories of black glass I'd overseen from foundation to penthouse.
The building had been my project during the years before his injury, and now it loomed ahead like a mausoleum.
You're just convenient.
The words echoed as we descended into the private garage, as Commander Reid approached with his report, as the elevator carried us upward through the building I'd helped create.
By the time the doors opened onto the executive level, I had locked away everything that wasn't useful.
The ache between my legs, the throb of hidden bruises, the echo of his dismissal.
All of it was compartmentalized and stored where it couldn't interfere with the work that needed doing.
"I need fifteen minutes," I informed Algerone as we stepped from the elevator. "The Pentagon briefing requires final adjustments."
"Fine." He moved toward his office without looking back, his cane tapping against marble. His gait was worse than this morning.
I watched him go, fighting the urge to follow, to offer assistance, to do any of the thousand small things I'd done for eighteen months without acknowledgment. But that wasn't my role anymore. Now I was just his COO, convenient for business and nothing more.
My office waited in its usual configuration with a comfortable temperature, soft lighting, and a desk cleared of everything except essentials. I moved to the private bathroom and locked the door behind me.
The mirror showed a man who should have been destroyed but somehow wasn't. I loosened my tie, unfastened buttons, and revealed the edges of Algerone's marks beginning to peek above my collar. The concealer had held, but now I needed to see them again.
I wiped away the makeup, watching each bruise reappear: the one below my ear, the cluster on my throat, and the mark on my collarbone where he'd bitten down while spending himself inside me. I pressed my fingers against the lowest bruise until pain bloomed through my chest.
He had marked me here. His teeth had broken these blood vessels. This evidence existed regardless of what he claimed afterward.
I had bathed him during the weeks when he couldn't stand, helped him to the toilet, and performed every intimate act of caregiving while maintaining perfect professional distance because that was all he would permit.
I had learned the new geography of his damaged body while pretending I didn't want to learn it with my mouth, my tongue, my desperate devotion.
And then Zurich had happened. Shaw's drugged wine and the kiss that had shattered something in Algerone's careful control.
The way he'd looked at me afterward, not with hatred but with hunger.
He had chosen to take what I'd offered, to use my body the way he'd used my service for thirty-two years, and then to walk away afterward as if it meant nothing.
I re-buttoned my shirt, reapplied concealer, and transformed myself back into the mask. By the time Archer knocked on my office door with his security briefing, no evidence remained of my momentary weakness.
Xavier Laskin waited in the diamond level conference room, hunched over a laptop with his fingers flying across the keyboard.
His hair had changed since last week, with the orange streaks brighter and the blue sections more vivid.
He kept reinventing himself as if he could outrun his father's shadow through sheer chromatic force.
I paused outside the door. Xavier had every reason to despise me.
I had stood at Algerone's side while his mother unraveled, had helped maintain the silence that kept Imogen isolated, had watched her destroy herself and done nothing because I'd seen her as an obstacle rather than a person.
Her son carried that knowledge, and he wielded it whenever we occupied the same space.
I entered without knocking.
"Your father will join us momentarily. He's reviewing the Zurich surveillance footage."
"Don't care." Xavier didn't look up from his screen. "I'm here for updates on Shaw's movements, not a family reunion. Algerone already filled me in on the basics."
I settled into the chair across from him. "Singapore is a decoy. We believe the prototype's in Vancouver."
"Already figured that out." He finally looked up, spinning his laptop to show satellite feeds. "His digital footprint shifted twelve hours ago. Tell me something I don't already know."
Before I could respond, the conference room door opened, and Algerone entered.
The effect was immediate. Xavier's posture shifted from aggressive boredom to wary attention.
Algerone commanded space simply by existing in it, the way he always had, the way he had since the first day I'd met him thirty-two years ago.
His gaze passed over me without acknowledgment, settling on Xavier with an expression I couldn't read.
"Xavier. Thank you for coming on such short notice."
"Didn't have much choice when your goons showed up at my door."
"A necessary precaution. The situation is more complex than you've been told."
I moved to stand near the wall, three feet behind Algerone's right shoulder.
"Shaw has made threats against you and your brothers," Algerone continued. "He believes he can use you as leverage to obtain activation protocols."
"The Volkov evidence." Xavier's expression shifted from hostility to calculation. "How extensive is it?"
"Comprehensive," I replied. "Surveillance photos, financial trails, and documentation of your brothers' activities. He's been collecting it for years."
Xavier's fingers began moving across the keyboard again. "And what exactly does he think I can do about the protocols? He must know they're tamper-proof."
"He believes you can provide a workaround. He doesn't understand the full scope of your security design."
"Explain it to me again," Algerone commanded. "I want to understand exactly how your system works."
Xavier rolled his eyes. "It's a dual-key system. Primary activation requires your biometrics." He paused, and something sharp entered his expression. "The second key is your ace of spades."
Algerone's hand moved to his breast pocket.
"I embedded a microchip in the card," Xavier continued. "Outside Spade Tower's coordinates, you need both your biometrics and the card for activation. Shaw stole an expensive paperweight."
"How did you access my cards?" Algerone demanded.
Xavier shrugged. "I only needed thirty seconds."
Algerone's fingers pressed against his pocket with his knuckles whitening. "That card has a bullet hole in it, Xavier. It's not a security prop."
"Which is exactly why I chose it." Xavier met his father's gaze without flinching. "If someone has both you and that card outside this building, they're either authorized or you're already dead." He leaned back in his chair. "It's the perfect failsafe."
The logic was flawless. I could appreciate the elegance even as I watched Algerone struggle with the violation. His most private talisman, the card that had saved his life, had been handled and modified without his knowledge.
"You should have told me," Algerone said quietly.
"You should have told me a lot of things over the years." Xavier's voice went flat. "Consider us even."
The silence stretched between them, weighted with years of absence. I remained still, aware that my presence represented part of what Xavier blamed his father for.
"Clever," Algerone finally conceded. "But we need to recover the prototype before Shaw reverse-engineers it."
"He won’t be able to do that easily. I built in self-destruct protocols. One wrong move cracking authentication, and core components fry themselves beyond recovery."
"Shaw doesn't know that," I interjected. "Which gives us an advantage."
Xavier studied my position behind Algerone's shoulder with uncomfortable intensity. "Something's different. You're standing closer than you used to. Before, you always kept exactly three feet between you, professional and proper." He tilted his head. "Now you're practically touching him."
I took a step backward.
Xavier's smile sharpened. "Still hovering, though. Just like you did while my mother fell apart. Standing right there at his shoulder while she destroyed herself."
The words struck bone. I held his gaze, refusing to look away because he was right.
"You’re right,” I said. “I decided she was an obstacle to be managed. I was wrong. I have to live with that every day."
“So do I,” Xavier spat.
"Focus," Algerone cut in, his voice lacking its usual authority. "Shaw poses an immediate threat. Personal history can wait."
The meeting continued with strategies discussed and security measures debated. Algerone addressed me only when necessary, his tone the flat professionalism he'd use with any subordinate. As if the marks beneath my collar didn't exist.
When Xavier finally departed, Algerone remained seated at the conference table, studying his tablet. I moved to stand beside him.
He didn't look up.
"The Singapore surveillance needs closer analysis. Have Archer prepare a detailed breakdown of personnel movements."
"Of course."
He glanced up finally, but his gaze passed through me rather than at me. "That will be all, Maxime."
I turned to leave.
"Maxime."
I stopped at the door, and something pathetic in my chest flared with hope.
"The quarterly projections are due Friday. Make sure legal reviews them before submission."
"Of course."
I walked out and closed the door behind me. I made it halfway down the corridor before I had to stop, pressing my palm against the wall and breathing through the tightness in my chest.
My other hand rose to my throat, pressing against the concealed bruises until pain bloomed beneath my fingers. Then I straightened my jacket, composed my expression, and walked to my office with perfect posture.