Chapter 8
Blake
The next afternoon, the merger deck's no longer a pitch. It's a working document, which means every polished insult has been given a version number, a comment thread, and the illusion of neutrality.
I sit in the Keller Industries conference room with my tablet open in front of me, stylus balanced between two fingers, and try not to think about Luther closing my laptop last night.
I try not to think about Grayson's hand in my hair, the office bedroom, the food I let them feed me after, the way sleep finally took me under because neither of them asked me to become useful before they let me rest.
Twenty-six hours later, I'm back under fluorescent lights while Victor Hale smiles across the table and speaks around me like my body's inconvenient furniture blocking his line of sight.
The room's full enough that none of it should feel intimate.
Maceo sits to Luther's left with the preliminary clauses open on his laptop, silent and still in the way that means he's already found three problems and is deciding which one to cut first. Two of my senior leads sit farther down the table with budget sheets and sprint projections.
Victor's brought three people from his side: a finance director, a transition manager, and Dorian Vale, who sits with a pen in his hand and an expression of patient interest that never quite reaches warmth.
The lights hum. Usually, I don't notice them. Today, the sound presses behind my eyes.
"The creative direction is, of course, one of the strongest elements on the table," Victor says, tapping one finger against the printed budget packet.
He's not looking at me. He hasn't looked at me for most of this segment.
His attention stays on Luther with the easy confidence of a man speaking to the person he's already decided matters most. "But with an expansion of this size, we usually separate creative leadership from final financial approval.
It protects the creative team from operational drag and gives the board a cleaner executive channel. "
The words are so smooth they almost pass for support.
My stylus stills against the tablet. "The marketing spend's tied directly to the engine upgrades.
The campaign relies on server-side stability, and the server-side stability depends on the technical rollout schedule.
Creative, technical, and budget approvals aren't separate channels for Starlight Falls.
They feed each other. I approve them together because that's how the company functions. "
Victor turns to me then, but only long enough to acknowledge that I've spoken. His smile is professional, faintly apologetic, and somehow more irritating than open dismissal would be.
"Of course, Blake. Your input is central.
" He looks back to Luther before the sentence has fully settled.
"My concern's only integration efficiency.
Luther, given the broader holdings and family governance structure, it may be simplest if your office signs off on quarterly spend during the transition phase. "
The first correction was clarity. The second feels like leadership. This third one tastes different before I even open my mouth.
It feels like asking the room to remember my name.
"My office signs off on quarterly spend," I say, keeping my voice even. "Luther handles legal and strategic alignment. Maceo reviews contract risk. I approve the operational architecture."
Victor's expression doesn't change. "Naturally. I apologize if that was unclear."
Beside me, Luther's gone very still.
He doesn't reach for the ledger Victor's finance director slides toward him. He doesn't look at the pen placed beside it. His scent stays controlled, but I know him too well not to feel the shift beneath it, the quiet heat gathering under his skin.
"Blake approves the budget because Blake owns the architecture," Luther says. His voice is calm enough that the entire room stills around it. "If that's unclear in your working documents, correct it before the next session."
Victor inclines his head with perfect composure. "Understood."
He says it like a man who's absorbed the correction.
Ten minutes later, he routes messaging hierarchy to Luther again.
By the time Dorian enters the conversation, my headache's settled into a tight band from temple to temple.
Dorian doesn't play Victor's game. He looks directly at me when he speaks, asks questions that are careful enough to sound thoughtful, and gives me just enough attention to make refusing it feel unreasonable.
"From a brand-positioning standpoint," Dorian says, turning one of the mock-ups toward me, "Starlight Falls has always carried a sense of recovery beneath the fantasy.
That's part of why the audience trusts it.
I'm interested in how you see that translating alongside Ember House without compromising the sanctuary's boundaries. "
It's almost the right question.
That's the problem with him.
I sit back a fraction. "Ember House doesn't exist to support brand positioning."
"No. Of course not." Dorian's answer comes immediately, soft and measured. "I'd never suggest otherwise. I'm talking about context. The sanctuary gives the partnership a visible ethical center. If handled properly, that can reinforce the mission rather than exploit it."
Maceo's fingers move across his keyboard. One short note. Maybe three words. I don't look over to read it, because if I do, I might lose whatever expression I'm managing to keep on my face.
"What does handled properly mean?" I ask.
Dorian's gaze stays on mine. He doesn't glance at Luther. He doesn't give me the easy insult Victor keeps offering by mistake or by design. He gives me something worse: the full weight of his attention.
"Consent. Boundaries. Resident protection. No one's asking to expose anyone." He pauses, pen resting against the edge of his folio. "But people trust a mission more when they can see who it's helped. There may be a way to honor that without crossing the lines you're concerned about."
My chest tightens.
He didn't say Luca. He didn't say survivor. He didn't say scars. Nothing about the sentence's technically wrong. Still, something in my body reacts before my mind can make a clean argument out of it.
"The line isn't vague," I say. "Resident histories are excluded by default. Luca's history is excluded by default. Family history is excluded by default. If your team drafts any concept that treats recovery as public-facing material, the answer'll be no before it reaches a second review."
Dorian nods slowly, as if I've offered valuable nuance instead of a wall. "That clarity helps."
It doesn't feel like it helps. It feels like he's learned exactly where I'll flinch.
The working session lasts another hour. Victor apologizes twice more for "shorthand" and "transition language," then repeats the same pattern with deadline authority and approval routing.
Dorian asks three questions that sound ethical until I hear them in his voice.
My team watches me with the careful attention of people who know I'm being diminished and don't know whether naming it will make it worse.
I keep my voice level. I correct the record.
I make decisions. I don't let my hand shake when I reach for my water.
By the time Luther and Maceo stand for the separate legal briefing Victor's counsel requested, the room feels too thin.
Luther pauses beside my chair. His hand comes to my shoulder, warm and heavy, his thumb pressing once through the fabric of my shirt. "Come with us."
"I need five minutes." I keep my eyes on the tablet, syncing the marked-up files to the secure server so I don't have to look at his face. If I look at him, he'll know too much. "I want the sprint notes saved before finance starts revising numbers around things they don't understand."
Maceo watches me from the doorway. His silver eyes move over my face, my hand, the shallow rhythm of my breathing. "Five minutes," he says.
I nod. "Five."
Luther doesn't like it. I can feel that before he moves, but Maceo's already stepping into the corridor, and the legal briefing isn't optional if we want to keep control of this mess. Luther's hand leaves my shoulder slowly.
"Lobby after," he says.
"Lobby after."
The door closes behind them with a soft, sealed click. For a moment, the quiet's almost a relief.
Then a shadow shifts at the far end of the table.
Dorian Vale hasn't left.
He stands near the windows with his coat draped over one arm, phone in his hand, looking down as if he's only just finished answering a message. It's such a plausible posture that my first reaction is irritation at myself for noticing the way my pulse jumps.
"Sorry," he says, glancing up. "I didn't mean to startle you."
"You didn't." The lie comes out too quickly.
His smile is small and professionally apologetic. He walks along the edge of the table, not fast, not directly toward me. Just close enough that the room begins to feel smaller with each step.
"It's a lot to carry," he says. "The company. The game. The sanctuary. The expectations around your family. I can see why the language matters to you."
I slide my tablet into its case. "Then use better language."
"I intend to." He stops a few feet from my chair, still outside any distance I could call inappropriate without sounding ridiculous. "I also understand why transition language can feel personal when you've built so much of this yourself."
My Delta instincts sharpen under my skin. Not panic yet. Not exactly. Something closer to the moment before glass breaks, when the whole room seems to hold its breath.
Dorian's scent is mild at first, expensive cologne and something clean enough to belong in a hotel lobby. Then it deepens by degrees. Not a burst. Not an attack. Just a subtle pressure slipping into the sealed air of the conference room, bitter beneath the polished surface.
I sit straighter. "Is there something else you need?"