Chapter 17
Anna
Cameras point at me from every angle, while spotlights partially blind me. I hate this, but it's necessary. Dakota stays alert in a corner of the stage, scanning the crowd with that intense gaze I've learned to recognize when she's worried.
“Good morning,” I begin, clearing my throat and forcing my best smile, though I have zero desire to be here. “I've decided to address the baseless accusations made against me.”
I pause briefly, studying the journalists' faces. In the front row, several major investors watch me with concern. Olivia's lies have thrown the stock market into chaos, though she doesn't know what's coming once the SEC starts investigating her short positions in the derivatives market.
“I'm accused of stealing technology that, as they wrongly claim, belongs to the Carlson family. Let me be crystal clear: I publicly challenge Mr. Carlson, his daughter Olivia Carlson, or any expert of their choosing, to discuss the technical details of our prototype on any national television network. The bigger the audience, the better — it'll make their lies more obvious.”
A murmur ripples through the room. From the corner of my eye, I see Dakota tense and signal Marcus. Something's wrong, but I must continue.
“This technology is unique. It's the result of years of research by a brilliant team of scientists and engineers. It's not just an improvement on something that exists — it's a complete revolution in how we understand energy.”
I lean slightly over the podium, letting my voice convey the passion I feel for this project.
“You know why these accusations are absurd? Because Mr. Carlson's company doesn't even work in nuclear fusion. Their experience is limited to conventional technologies. I invite you to review their patents, their scientific publications. Oh wait, sorry — they don't have any scientific publications,” I say with a hint of mockery, drawing laughter from those present. “Either way, you won't find anything remotely similar to what we've developed.”
Dakota moves quickly through the crowd. Something has alerted her, but I can't let that distract me right now.
“But this goes beyond defending my honor or my company's. This isn't about money or power. It's about changing people's lives. Providing clean, cheap energy to every corner of the planet. Giving developing countries a chance. Stopping climate change.”
The words flow from my heart. This isn't the speech I prepared — it's more personal, more authentic. It's real.
“In a few weeks, our prototype will be ready. And then, everything I'm saying will be proven beyond any doubt. It's not my word against anyone's. It's science, verifiable facts.”
The crowd starts nodding. Even some of the most skeptical journalists seem convinced.
“Here's my proposal: in a few weeks, come see the prototype. Bring independent experts. Let us show you how it works. Truth doesn't fear scrutiny.”
Dakota has vanished into the crowd. Marcus looks tense, constantly touching his earpiece.
“Because this isn't about me, or Olivia Carlson, or her father. It's about making the world better. Leaving a legacy that benefits all humanity.”
I pause, letting my words sink in.
“Some have asked why we don't sell the technology to the highest bidder. They want to know why we're not raising our planned price to maximize profits. The answer is simple: because progress must be accessible to everyone. Otherwise, I'd be robbing humanity.”
I see tears in some people's eyes. Others nod with conviction. Even the most worried investors now look calm. I've reached their hearts.
“In conclusion, I have nothing to hide. I'm ready to defend our technology before any expert they choose. Because truth, ladies and gentlemen, always comes to light.”
Applause erupts in the room. Some stand up. Questions rain from all directions, but I raise a hand for silence. Dakota walks toward me calmly, Marcus seems relaxed. I guess it was a false alarm.
“And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a prototype to finish. One that will change the world forever, that will make our planet better.”
Cameras keep snapping photos as I head toward the exit. The crowd's murmur starts to fade when suddenly I hear shouts, rapid footsteps behind me. My body reacts before my mind, remembering each of Dakota's lessons from the past two weeks.
I pivot on my left foot and slightly bend my knees. A very young guy with his face covered by a black bandana runs toward me, wielding something in his hand. Adrenaline makes everything seem to move in slow motion.
“Stay calm and watch his movements,” I hear Dakota's voice in my head.
The attacker raises his arm and I see a metallic flash. Without thinking, I execute the kick we've practiced so many times. My foot impacts directly in his groin and the guy collapses with a high-pitched whimper while the can of red paint rolls across the floor.
“Death to… capitalism,” he whimpers, writhing in pain.
Security guards immediately subdue him. Dakota appears at my side, containing a smile.
“Are you okay?” she asks, though by her expression, she already knows the answer.
“Did you see? One kick, and he went down,” I say proudly, pointing at the guy while camera flashes capture the moment.
Later, after the police paperwork, Dakota insists on taking me somewhere special. She drives for half an hour to a small place in an industrial neighborhood. A neon sign that looks straight out of the '80s flickers above us: “Joe's Bar & Grill.”
“Is this place… safe?” I ask, eyeing the Harley-Davidsons parked outside.
“Trust me,” she responds with a spectacular wink.
The inside smells of beer and hot sauce. Music blasts at full volume and several guys in leather vests watch us enter. I feel completely out of place in my designer suit.
“My mentor brought me here when I passed Special Forces testing,” she explains as we sit at the bar. “They have the best hot dogs in the city.”
“You brought me here to eat hot dogs?” I ask with surprise.
“With extra chili. And ice-cold beer. It's kind of an initiation ritual,” she adds, giving my shoulder a light punch.
Joe, the bar owner, turns out to be an ex-marine with arms the size of my thighs and a surprisingly kind smile.
“Dakota!” he greets, wrapping her in an enthusiastic hug. “Who's this beauty?”
“My girlfriend,” she responds with pride, and my heart flips hearing her say it out loud.
“The millionaire from the news?” a guy asks from the end of the bar.
“The same one who just kicked a protester in the nuts,” she confirms.
The whole bar erupts in laughter and applause. Suddenly, I find myself surrounded by tough guys covered in tattoos, all smiling at me.
“The technique was perfect,” Dakota comments while Joe serves us two beers. “Though don't get too cocky, he was just a college kid, all skin and bones. Still, you aimed well. Right in the nuts, just like I taught you.”
“I never got in a fight. Not even in school,” I confess, taking a sip of my beer.
“I'm proud of you,” she whispers, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “Though I'm sorry I wasn't closer.”
I want to respond, but Joe places two enormous hot dogs overflowing with chili and fried onions in front of us.
“How am I supposed to eat this?” I ask, fearing the sauce will spill all over my tailored suit.
“You eat it like a normal person, not like the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company. If you get messy, that's what napkins are for,” she jokes while taking a huge bite of her hot dog, sauce covering the corner of her mouth.
I can't help laughing, seeing her like this, so relaxed, so different from the professional bodyguard who's accompanied me these past weeks.
“You'll have to teach me lots about being a normal person,” I joke.
“Like what?”
“Where to get this beer. Or how to get those guys to stop looking at me like I'm an alien.”
“All in good time,” she sighs, cleaning a spot of sauce from my chin with her thumb. “Though I like that you're different.”
“Even when I go into aggressive executive mode?”
“Especially then,” she confesses with a wink. “It's sexy when you get all dominant.”
“You're an idiot, Dakota Martinez. But I like you that way.”
Conversation flows between laughter and confessions. A couple of massive guys join us and tell stories from their Special Forces days, some funny, others that give me goosebumps. Joe shares some embarrassing anecdotes about Dakota, and soon I find myself laughing like I haven't in years.
“You know what impressed me most today?” she asks suddenly.
“Besides my wonderful kick right in that guy's nuts?”
“What really caught my attention is that you went off your prepared script. You spoke from the heart and the result was spectacular. The old Anna Sinclair would never have risked deviating from a planned speech.”
“I guess the old Anna Sinclair wouldn't be eating chili dogs in a biker and ex-military bar either,” I acknowledge, kissing her lips.