Chapter 11 #2
When he looks back, the fury has been replaced by caution.
Much more useful.
“Who questioned her?”
“She doesn't know.”
“Nationality?”
“Possibly Eastern European.”
“Russian?”
“Maybe Ukrainian. Maybe neither.”
“Names?”
“Nothing verified.”
“And you think this somehow absolves her?”
“No. I think it proves there is another player.”
He doesn't answer.
“Sabine admitted she was one of the breaches.”
His eyes sharpen at the name.
Sabine.
Real.
Human.
Not Vesper.
I continue.
“She also told me she wasn't responsible for everything we're seeing.”
“And you believed her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because when I asked what she was looking for, she told me.”
“Her father.”
“Yes.”
“And conveniently ARGUS woke up at exactly the same time.”
“No. That's the problem.”
I step closer to the screen.
“Her activity and the deeper ARGUS intrusion don't map cleanly.”
My father says nothing.
“She was searching archives.”
I point toward him.
“Someone else was searching architecture.”
His expression closes.
“Who?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Then find out.”
“I intend to.”
“Without her.”
“No.”
His restraint breaks.
“Why?”
The word explodes through the room.
“Why is this the hill you've chosen? You have spent your entire life protecting this company. You've ended careers for less than what she has done. Men twice your age are afraid to lie in the same room with you because you will take their entire lives apart before lunch.”
His palms hit the table.
“Where is that man?”
I don't answer.
“Where is my son who doesn't hesitate?”
Still nothing.
“Who doesn't get sentimental?”
My eyes move involuntarily toward the hallway.
He sees it.
His face changes.
Disbelief first.
Then something close to horror.
“No.”
I look back.
He exhales slowly.
“No.”
“What?”
“You're in love with her.”
The words hit differently when someone else says them.
I keep my expression blank.
My father laughs once.
It sounds almost shocked.
“Unbelievable.”
“This conversation is over.”
“Answer me.”
“No.”
“Are you in love with Adrien Beaumont’s daughter?”
“Lower your voice.”
He stares.
Then realization dawns.
“She doesn't know.”
I say nothing.
His expression becomes incredulous.
“She doesn't know.”
“Not your concern.”
“Does anyone?”
“No.”
“And you intend to keep it that way?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because I don't know whether saying it will make Sabine stay or send her diving into the Thames.
Because love has apparently done nothing to reduce my intelligence.
Because she has been hunted, kidnapped, exposed, and forced into trusting me in the span of twenty-four hours.
Because my feelings are mine to manage until she is safe enough to choose what she wants.
“Because it isn't information you need.”
My father leans back.
For several seconds, he simply looks at me.
Then:
“This is catastrophic.”
“Dramatic.”
“You're compromised.”
“Probably.”
His eyes widen.
Apparently he expected resistance.
I don't have the energy.
“Yes,” I say. “I have a personal interest.”
“A personal interest.”
“Call it whatever helps you sleep.”
“I call it grounds for removal.”
“Try.”
His mouth tightens.
“You will recuse yourself from ARGUS.”
“No.”
“You will end contact with her.”
“No.”
“You will turn her over to internal security.”
“No.”
“Xavier.”
“No.”
His hand comes down hard against the table.
“I forbid any further association with that woman.”
Silence.
I look at him.
Really look at him.
Sixty years of Blackwell control condensed into one sentence.
I forbid it.
Something in me almost laughs.
I haven't been sixteen for a long time.
“You forbid it.”
“Yes.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You are forcing me to choose between my son and the integrity of this company.”
“Then choose carefully.”
“Do not test me.”
“I'm not.”
My voice gets quieter.
“You're testing me.”
His gaze hardens.
“She is a liability.”
“No.”
“She is an outsider.”
“No.”
“She has no legal standing inside Blackwell, no clearance, no contractual protection, no privileged relationship to you. She is an admitted hostile actor whose presence exposes this family, this company, and every client we serve.”
I listen.
Liability.
Outsider.
No standing.
No protection.
Each word clicks into place.
My mind does what it has always done.
Finds the structure.
Finds the weakness.
Finds the shortest route through it.
My father is still talking.
“Until counsel determines otherwise, she cannot remain under your personal protection. She cannot access Blackwell property. She cannot be present in sensitive environments. She cannot—”
“Fine.”
He stops.
I barely hear myself say it.
The thought arrives fully formed.
Insane.
Clean.
Effective.
My father narrows his eyes.
“Fine?”
“I’ll change her status.”
“What are you talking about?”
I look toward the cracked bedroom door.
Caramel hair against my pillow.
Her hand tucked beneath her cheek.
Still here?
Still here.
I turn back.
“I’ll marry her.”
Nothing.
Absolute silence.
My father blinks once.
“What?”
Interesting.
Apparently I can still surprise him.
“I said I'll marry her.”
“You have lost your mind.”
“Possible.”
“Xavier.”
“She becomes my wife, she's no longer an external association.”
His mouth actually falls open.
“Marriage does not erase criminal exposure.”
“I didn't say it did.”
“It does not grant her Blackwell clearance.”
“I didn't say that either.”
“It certainly does not prevent authorities—”
“It makes her family.”
My father stops.
There.
That's the point.
“She gets my attorneys. My security. My personal legal team. Any attempt to put her into some internal Blackwell room for an undocumented interrogation becomes an attempt to seize my wife.”
“This is absurd.”
“Effective.”
“You cannot marry a woman to solve a compliance problem.”
“People marry for worse reasons.”
“You have known her in person for less than twenty-four hours.”
“I've known her for years.”
“You've known messages.”
“I've known her longer than any woman I've ever dated.”
“You haven't dated her.”
“Semantics.”
My father looks like he wants to climb through the encrypted wall and strangle me.
“You don't know whether she'd agree.”
I almost smile.
“That is admittedly a flaw in the plan.”
“This is not a plan.”
“Still developing.”
“This is insanity.”
“Maybe.”
“You are talking about marriage as though you're moving an asset between subsidiaries.”
“That seems like a complaint about presentation rather than substance.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I think about Sabine asleep in my bed.
Her hand catching my wrist when I tried to leave.
Stay.
Her mouth against mine.
The battered Shakespeare book in my briefcase.
The fact that the thought of handing her over to anyone makes every instinct I possess turn violent.
“I’ve made worse decisions.”
“When?”
I consider.
“None come immediately to mind.”
My father closes his eyes.
For the first time in my life, I may have exhausted him.
Then a sound comes from the hallway.
Soft.
Fabric against the doorframe.
Every nerve in my body activates.
I turn.
Sabine stands in the doorway.
Barefoot.
My white shirt falls almost to mid-thigh beneath the robe she has pulled loosely around herself.
Her caramel hair is enormous from sleep.
One side flattened.
The other doing whatever the hell it wants.
Her cornflower eyes are wide.
Very awake now.
My stomach drops.
How long?
Her gaze flicks toward the screen.
My father sees her.
His expression becomes stone.
Sabine looks back at me.
Then at the wall.
Then me again.
Silence stretches.
She lifts one eyebrow.
“When you said we had tonight, I did not realize there was a marriage proposal scheduled for sunrise.”
I close my eyes.
Fuck.
Her accent thickens when she's tired.
Naturally that is what my brain notices.
My father's voice cuts through the room.
“Ms. Beaumont.”
Sabine turns toward the screen.
The softness disappears from her face.
Vesper slides into place so quickly I nearly feel it happen.
“Mr. Blackwell.”
“I think we need to speak.”
“No,” I say.
Both of them look at me.
Sabine's brows rise.
My father’s jaw tightens.
I step between her and the screen without thinking.
Her gaze drops briefly to my back.
Then up to me.
That hurts somewhere unexpected.
“No one speaks to her without me present.”
Sabine folds her arms.
“I am capable of speaking.”
“I know.”
“I've been doing it for years.”
“I remember.”
My father's patience finally snaps.
“This is exactly what I'm talking about.”
Sabine looks past me.
“What exactly are you talking about?”
“Sabine.”
She ignores me.
Naturally.
My father leans toward the screen.
“You penetrated private Blackwell systems.”
“Yes.”
I turn.
She shrugs.
“We all know. It seems silly to pretend.”
My father stares at her.
She gives him the same expression she has probably given me through NULL a thousand times.
Sweet.
Polite.
Lethal.
“And for what it's worth,” she adds, “your unhackable systems were never unhackable.”
My father's nostrils flare.
I rub my forehead.
This is going exceptionally well.
“You see?” he says to me. “This.”
Sabine looks at me.
“Does he always point?”
“Yes.”
“I dislike it.”
“So do I.”
“You two will not make jokes while discussing a breach of international—”
Sabine's eyes narrow.
“Did your company kill my father?”
The room goes dead.
Every trace of humor disappears.
My father doesn't move.
Sabine does.
One step.
Then another.
She comes to stand beside me.
Not behind.
Never behind.
Her bare feet disappear into the thick carpet.
Her voice is quieter now.
“Because if you want to discuss what I stole, we can. But first I would like to discuss what Blackwell took.”
My father looks at her for a very long moment.
Then:
“You know less than you think.”
Sabine goes completely still.
My attention snaps toward him.
“What does that mean?”
He ignores me.
Her voice becomes almost a whisper.
“Then tell me.”
My father’s expression closes.
“Not like this.”
Sabine laughs once.
There is no humor in it.
“Interesting.”
She turns away from the screen.
I see the hurt she refuses to let him see.
There.
That decides more than any argument did.
My hand finds hers.
Her fingers are cold.
She looks down at them wrapped inside mine.
Then up at me.
My father sees that too.
Good.
“Xavier,” he says.