Chapter 12
Luca
The hallway outside the main conference room at Keller Industries smells like floor wax, coffee, and the cold recycled air that lives in places where people argue politely about money.
I shift the lunch bag higher in my arms, careful not to crush the sandwiches inside, and keep Rosalie close with one hand on the back of her sweater.
Blake didn't answer Grayson's last two messages, which means he's either in a meeting, working through one, or ignoring his body with the intense focus he usually reserves for system failures.
Grayson packed food anyway, sealed everything in neat containers, and looked at me over the kitchen island with the kind of patience that meant he expected me to succeed where texts had failed.
Samuel walks a few steps ahead of us with his hands folded behind his back because I told him three separate times not to touch the keypad near the development wing.
James stays beside me, his notebook tucked under one arm, his gaze moving over the vents and ceiling panels with quiet concentration.
He's been watching hands more lately, not faces.
I don't think he knows he's doing it. I do.
Rosalie holds her crown against her chest instead of wearing it, and every few steps she looks toward the conference room doors as if Luther might appear by force of wanting him enough.
I almost turn around before we reach the end of the hall.
The impulse comes without warning, sharp and bodily.
My feet slow. My fingers tighten around the paper handles of the bag, and the warm weight of Blake's lunch presses against my ribs.
There's no obvious danger. No raised voices.
No scent strong enough to explain the cold prickle under my skin.
The hallway's bright, the carpet clean, the office quiet behind glass walls, and the children are calm enough that leaving now would feel like teaching them fear before anything's happened.
So I keep walking.
"Papa," Samuel says, his voice lower than usual, "when we get to Blake's office, can I knock first?"
"Yes. Softly."
"Softly like with sleeping people or softly like with angry people?"
James looks up before I can answer, his shoulder brushing mine. "Those aren't the same kind of soft."
"No," I say, and I try to make my voice steady enough to hold both of them. "Today we use the kind of soft that lets people know we're here without startling them."
Rosalie makes a small sound and tucks herself closer to my side. I look down at her just as the conference room door opens.
Dorian Vale steps into the hall with a tablet in one hand and his suit jacket folded over the other arm.
Victor's behind him, speaking to someone still inside, his attention already moving past us the way powerful men often look past rooms they assume belong to them.
Dorian stops when he sees me. His expression shifts into something pleasant and measured, and there's nothing in it that anyone could reasonably call threatening.
That's the first thing my body notices. How careful he is.
"Luca," he says, warm enough to be polite. "I didn't realize you were coming in today."
The elevator's behind him. The side corridor's to my left, past the conference room doors and too narrow to move through easily with three children and a lunch bag.
Blake's office is beyond Dorian, down the hall and around the corner.
Dorian doesn't step toward me, but he's already in the path I'd need most.
"We're bringing Blake lunch," I say, adjusting my grip on the bag before the handles can slip. "We didn't mean to interrupt."
"You're not interrupting." His gaze moves over the children briefly, soft enough to look kind.
James presses his shoulder harder against my arm, and Samuel stops moving entirely.
Rosalie turns her face into my sweater, her crown digging into my hip.
Dorian's eyes catch each of those movements and return to me without a single change in his smile.
"It's good to see the family side of the company.
It explains some of the loyalty people have to this place. "
Victor offers a brief nod from behind him. "Luca. Children." Then his focus returns to the conference room, to Luther or Blake or whoever he still believes is the proper person to receive his attention. "We'll have the revised schedule sent over this afternoon."
Dorian remains in the hallway after Victor moves away.
There's no reason for him to remain. The absence of a reason feels heavier than a direct threat.
"I hoped we might speak eventually," he says, shifting the tablet against his arm. "About Ember House. Not now, of course, unless you've got a minute. I know you're on your way somewhere."
The words give me an exit. His body doesn't.
"Questions about Ember House can go through Maceo," I say. "The sanctuary's separate from the merger."
"Absolutely." His agreement comes quickly, almost gently. "I understand the legal separation. I'm asking more about language than structure. Public understanding. Mission clarity. You've got a perspective no one else can provide."
The compliment's shaped well enough that refusing it feels rude.
That's part of the pressure. Dorian keeps his voice quiet, too quiet for anyone down the hall to hear without stopping, and I hate that I have to stay still to make sense of what he's saying.
The children stay close, listening to my body more than his words.
"I'm not part of your marketing team," I say. “And my husband’s company doesn’t buy access to me.”
"No. Of course not." He moves half a step, as if to ease the tension, but the path to the elevator remains blocked unless I pass close enough to brush his sleeve.
"That's not what I meant. I'm interested in how people tell the truth without harming themselves.
The work you do at Ember House is important.
I imagine some residents may eventually want to speak for themselves, if handled with care. Consent-based. Controlled. Protective."
Every word's reasonable on its own.
Together, they make the hallway smaller.
"Some people choose to share pieces of their history," I say. "That choice belongs to them. So does privacy."
"I agree." Dorian lowers his gaze for a moment, a careful show of thoughtfulness.
"Privacy matters. I'd never suggest otherwise.
But visibility can protect a mission too.
Funding follows understanding. Public trust follows connection.
I wonder whether hiding the human impact entirely leaves the sanctuary more vulnerable in the long run. "
My scent changes before I can stop it.
It goes heavy and sweet, syrup-thick with distress, and James reacts first. His hand clamps around the back of my sweater, fingers twisting into the fabric.
Samuel steps closer to my front, not fully blocking me yet, but placing his body where he thinks it might matter.
Rosalie's breath catches in two small, frightened sounds against my hip.
Dorian glances at Rosalie, then away.
"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I don't mean to upset anyone."
The apology's perfect. Too perfect to hold.
"You're standing between us and the elevator," I say.
He looks toward the elevator as if he's only just noticed where he is, and then he shifts aside. Half a step. Enough to become defensible. Not enough to feel open.
"There," he says, still quiet. "Better?"
I can't answer. My throat's closed around the shape of every thing I should say.
Move. Tell him to step back. Call Luther.
Call Blake. Put the children behind you.
Walk through the space anyway. It's not a room with a locked door.
It's not a basement. It's a hallway inside Keller Industries in the middle of the day, with people beyond the glass and my mates close enough to reach if I could make my hand move toward my phone.
My hand doesn't move.
Dorian's expression softens. "Your story's already inspired people, Luca. Whether intentionally or not. Ember House exists because you survived and chose to build something from survival. I can only imagine what donors might understand if that connection were framed with the care it deserves."
Samuel steps fully in front of me.
His body's small. His voice isn't. "We need to go now."
Dorian looks down at him. Only for a second, but James starts shaking against my side, and Rosalie begins to cry.
Not loudly at first. She says Luther's name into my sweater like she's trying to summon him from the fabric, then says it again with a broken little sob that cuts through the hallway and reaches whatever part of me is still frozen.
Samuel reaches back for James without looking away from Dorian. "Papa, we need to go now."
That moves me.
I lift Rosalie with one arm, the crown pressed between us, and force my feet toward the space Dorian's left.
The lunch bag swings against my leg. Coffee sloshes inside one of the cups.
My shoulder doesn't touch him. Nothing touches me.
No one stops us. That's what makes it so hard to breathe, because the fear has nowhere clean to attach itself.
Dorian says, "I apologize again if I overstepped," and the words follow us to the elevator like something spilled across the floor.
I don't look back.
I don’t go to Blake’s office.
For one second, I almost do. The lunch is still warm against my side, and Blake is somewhere on this floor working through another meal because none of us have managed to make him stop.
But Rosalie is crying into my sweater, James is shaking against Samuel’s hand, and Samuel is standing like a guard in an elevator he should only associate with buttons and bad jokes.
Blake needs lunch. The children need out I press the button for the lobby.