Chapter 19
The concealer wasn't working.
I leaned closer to the mirror in my private bathroom, dabbing another layer over my left cheekbone. The purple bruising spread beneath the makeup like a stain that refused to be hidden. My split lip had swollen to twice its normal size, and no amount of product could disguise that.
Xander had inherited their father's powerful right hook.
Pain shot through my ribs with each breath. They had landed several solid blows to my side during our encounter at the cemetery.
I should have gone home after leaving Imogen's grave. Any rational person would have. But Shaw still had the prototype, the board was circling, and the Pentagon wanted answers. The crisis didn't care that I'd just been beaten bloody by my employer's child. The crisis only cared that I showed up.
So, I'd driven straight back to Spade Tower, parked in my reserved space, and taken the service elevator to avoid questions. Now I stood in my private bathroom attempting to make myself presentable for the executives waiting in the Diamond conference room.
I looked like a boxer after a losing match, despite my best efforts. The bruising remained visible beneath the makeup, and my swollen lip couldn't be hidden at all.
I straightened my tie, adjusted my jacket, and stepped out of the bathroom into my office. Through the glass walls, I could see Callum hovering near my door, tablet in hand. Behind him, the conference room had already filled with executives.
Callum’s eyes flicked to my face as I emerged. He registered the damage and wisely asked nothing.
"Pentagon briefing materials are ready, sir. Marked confidential." He fell into step beside me. "Board members have requested an update on the Vancouver operation."
"Schedule them for four." I took the tablet without breaking stride. "Arrange for the DARPA team to join via secure video. And tell Legal I want the full contract review by noon tomorrow."
"Yes, sir." He matched my pace effortlessly. "Also, Mr. Caisse-Etremont's jet landed an hour ago. He's requested—"
"I'm aware." I cut him off mid-sentence, watching his mouth snap shut instantly. "Coffee. Black."
"Already waiting in the Diamond conference room."
I entered the conference room to find eight executives seated around the obsidian table.
Their voices fell silent upon my arrival.
Several pairs of eyes widened at the sight of my face, but no one dared comment.
Security briefings were already displayed on the wall screens.
Coffee steamed from a porcelain cup at my designated position to Algerone's right.
"Gentlemen." I planted my feet shoulder-width apart, gripping the back of my chair instead of sitting. The thought of lowering myself onto the hard seat sent phantom pain radiating through my side. "Let's begin with the threat assessment."
Captain Kane rose, positioning himself before the primary display. "Initial analysis confirms seven Shaw assets embedded within our organization. Two in Security, three in R&D, one in Executive Support, and one in—"
The conference room door opened.
Algerone stood in the doorway, silver-tipped cane gripped tight in his right hand.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His suit bore subtle wrinkles from long travel.
His eyes swept the room, taking in each face and each expression before locking onto mine.
His pupils contracted as he registered my swollen lip and the poorly concealed bruising.
His jaw tightened. The knuckles on his cane whitened.
For three heartbeats, no one moved and no one spoke. The room held its collective breath.
"Everyone out," Algerone said quietly.
No one questioned the command. Chairs scraped against marble. Laptops closed with soft clicks. Within thirty seconds, the room emptied, leaving only Algerone and me.
He crossed to where I stood, each tap of his cane against the marble floor marking the rhythm of my pulse. His eyes never left my face as he closed the distance between us.
He took my chin in his hand, turning my face from side to side to examine the damage. His thumb brushed across my swollen lip, making me shiver. "You're hurt."
"I can still work."
"I didn't ask if you could." His hand rose, thumb brushing against my cheek. His touch was so gentle it nearly undid me. "All these years, Maxime. And this is the first time I've seen you show pain. Who did this to you?"
"It doesn't matter."
His eyes narrowed. "It matters to me."
I hesitated, weighing truth against protection. But Xander was his child, his blood. "I fell."
"Don't lie to me, Maxime."
I swallowed hard, tasting copper from my reopened lip. "I had an encounter at the cemetery."
His brow furrowed, surprise flickering across his face. "Cemetery? What were you doing at a cemetery?"
I hesitated, the years of secrecy hard to break. "Visiting Imogen's grave."
The silence that followed was absolute. Algerone went completely still, his hand frozen against my face. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled.
"You visit Imogen's grave."
"Yes."
"How long?" His eyes searched mine, looking for deception.
"Since she died."
He took a step back, processing this new information. "You've been visiting the grave of my children's mother for over twenty years without telling me?"
"Yes, Xander found me there."
Algerone paced a short line, his cane striking the marble floor hard enough to echo through the room. "So my child discovered you, a man they believe helped kill their mother, at her grave. And this is how they responded." He gestured at my injuries.
"I didn't fight back," I said quietly.
He stopped pacing, turning to face me. "Why do you go there, Maxime?"
The question I'd asked myself countless times. "Penance, perhaps. Respect. She deserved someone to remember her."
"And you appointed yourself her caretaker after keeping her from me."
"Yes."
His hand rose to my jaw, tilting my face to better examine the damage beneath the makeup. "And you didn't defend yourself."
He knew me too well to even phrase it as a question.
"They deserved the chance," I said quietly. "To express their anger."
Algerone's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His fingers dropped from my face, leaving a cold absence where his touch had been.
"Go home," he said finally.
The words failed to register properly, as if he'd switched to another language. "I have meetings. The Pentagon briefing. The contract review."
"I'll handle it." His tone left no room for debate. "Go home, Maxime. Rest."
"But—"
"For once, do what I ask without arguing." Something softened in his expression, not quite tenderness but something closer to concern. "The company won't collapse if you take a half day."
A cold spike of dread shot through me. Was this a dismissal? Had my injuries made me a liability? I searched his face for signs of disappointment, for the subtle cues that I'd failed him. "Have I done something wrong?"
His eyes widened slightly. "Wrong? No, Maxime. You need to rest."
I didn't understand. Rest was weakness. Absence was failure. "I've never taken a day off."
"I know." His hand found my elbow, steering me gently toward the door. "That's why I'm ordering you to start now."
Confusion clouded my thoughts. Sick days existed for others. Vacation time applied to normal humans. Not to me, and never to me.
"But the Shaw situation—"
"Will still be here tomorrow." He opened the conference room door. "Your car is waiting downstairs. Go home. That's an order."
I hesitated a moment longer, searching for arguments that might sway him.
Finding none, I straightened my jacket and walked stiffly past him into the corridor.
My body moved mechanically through the motions of departure while my mind rebelled against the concept.
Callum stood nearby, watching with carefully masked surprise as I passed him without instructions.
I pressed the elevator button and waited, my posture military-straight despite the pain. Algerone remained in the doorway, watching to ensure I actually left. The weight of his gaze followed me into the elevator.
The doors closed. I was alone.
The elevator descended in silence. My mind raced through work that would remain undone, problems unsolved, and tasks unassigned. But beneath that familiar anxiety lurked something unexpected, a hollow sensation spreading through my chest that resembled relief.
A black Cadillac Escalade-V ESV waited at the curb, engine running almost silently. Not the flashy Bentley or ostentatious Maybach that transported clients. This was different—practical luxury, a vehicle chosen with purpose.
The driver, Williams, one of our most discreet security personnel, opened the rear door without a word.
The familiar scent of leather welcomed me as I slid inside.
My body sank into the executive rear seating that seemed to anticipate my injuries, supporting without pressing.
Williams closed the door with a hushed click, sealing me in perfect silence.
The temperature was exactly 68 degrees, my preferred setting. A silk handkerchief lay folded in the cup holder, pristine white against black leather. Beside it, a bottle of still water rather than sparkling. Algerone remembered I hated carbonation.
I pressed a button, and the seat reclined. Another, and gentle heat spread across my lower back. A third activated a subtle massage function that worked around my injuries.
This wasn't just transportation. This was Algerone speaking without words, telling me that he saw me and knew what I needed. For once, he was taking care of me.
A strange warmth bloomed across my chest. I didn't know how to receive attention like this. My hands fidgeted with the handkerchief, unsure what to do with this care I hadn't earned through service, care that seemed to exist regardless of my utility.
What did it mean that he knew about the carbonation? About the exact temperature? Had I been so transparent all these years while believing myself unreadable?