Chapter 7
CYPRESS
The chaos of the trade show floor fades to background static as I watch Victor Ashworth's smug face, his perfectly manicured hand clasped around our supplier's in what looks like the closing handshake of a done deal.
My stomach drops somewhere around my knees, and for a moment I consider the very real possibility that we've already lost this battle before it even began.
But then I feel Knox shift beside me, his frame radiating fire and barely contained violence, and something in my brain clicks from panic mode into pure, cold calculation.
This is what I do. This is what I've always done—find the angle, work the numbers, outmaneuver the opposition with data instead of brute force.
The only difference now is that I have six-foot-eight of green muscle backing me up instead of a passive-aggressive email chain.
"Give me your tablet." I don't even look at Knox as I hold out my hand, my eyes fixed on Ashworth and his goons like a hawk tracking prey.
Knox doesn't question me. He simply reaches into his briefcase and produces the tablet we'd been using for our strategy sessions, pressing it into my palm with a grunt of approval that sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine.
Now is absolutely not the time for my body to be reacting to his proximity, so I shove that feeling down into the same mental box where I keep my student loan anxiety and my complicated feelings about my mother's passive-aggressive holiday cards.
"Follow me. And look intimidating."
"I always look intimidating." There's a note of genuine confusion in him, as if I've just asked him to breathe or blink.
"More intimidating. Like you're considering which of their bones would make the best trophy."
A low rumble of amusement vibrates through him. "First Mate, you are developing a warrior's instincts."
I don't have time to process the warm glow that compliment ignites in me because I'm already moving, cutting through the crowd with Knox at my back like a battleship following a determined tugboat.
People part around us—around him, really—their conversations trailing off into startled silence as they catch sight of the Orc in the Italian three-piece suit advancing with obvious purpose.
By the time we reach the supplier's booth, every pair of eyes in a twenty-foot radius has turned our direction, and Ashworth's expression has shifted from smug satisfaction to wary calculation.
"Bloodaxe." He says Knox's name like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "I wasn't aware you were attending the expo. Bit below your pay grade, isn't it? Rubbing elbows with the common vendors?"
"I go where the battle demands." Knox is so loud I see two of the goons actually take an involuntary step backward. "Unlike some, who send lesser warriors to do their conquering while they hide behind paper shields."
Ashworth's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, a crack in his polished facade that sends a spike of satisfaction through me. But he recovers quickly, spreading his hands in a gesture of false magnanimity that makes me want to throw my tablet at his perfect teeth.
"There's no battle here, Bloodaxe. Just good business.
Mr. Patterson and I were simply discussing the benefits of a long-term exclusive partnership.
" He gestures to the supplier—a nervous-looking man in his fifties with thinning hair and sweat stains spreading beneath his arms. "Ashworth Capital takes care of its partners.
Something you might learn, if you weren't so busy playing at corporate warfare. "
I step forward before Knox can respond, positioning myself directly between the two CEOs with my tablet raised like a shield. "Mr. Patterson. Before you finalize anything with Ashworth Capital, I think you should take a look at some numbers."
Ashworth's goons shift, their attention snapping to me like I've just pulled a weapon, but Knox moves with them.
He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.
The simple fact of his presence—the way his shoulders roll with barely contained power, the way his ringed tusks catch the light like ceremonial armor, the way his eyes sweep over the assembled muscle with the bored assessment of a predator evaluating whether these particular prey are worth the effort of killing—keeps them rooted in place like their expensive shoes have been nailed to the convention center floor.
"I don't think that's necessary," Ashworth says smoothly, but I'm already pulling up the spreadsheet I've been building for the past week, the one that maps out every contract, every payment, every delivery schedule associated with Ashworth Capital's supply chain acquisitions.
"Mr. Patterson, your current contract with our company guarantees you net sixty payment terms and flexible order volumes based on quarterly demand projections.
You've never had a late payment from us.
Not once in seven years of partnership." I turn the tablet so Patterson can see the screen, highlighting the relevant data with quick taps of my finger.
"Ashworth Capital, on the other hand, has a documented history of extending payment terms to net ninety—sometimes net one-twenty—for new suppliers during their 'onboarding period.
' Which, based on public SEC filings, tends to last approximately eighteen months. "
Patterson's eyes widen slightly, his gaze darting between my tablet and Ashworth's increasingly rigid smile.
The goons are getting restless, shuffling their weight and exchanging glances that suggest they're not entirely sure how to handle a five-foot-four woman with a spreadsheet and absolutely zero fear in her.
"That's a gross mischaracterization of our payment policies," Ashworth says, but I'm already swiping to the next screen.
"Is it? Because according to your last three quarterly reports, Ashworth Capital has increased its accounts payable aging by an average of forty-seven percent year over year.
That's not growth, Mr. Patterson. That's a company leveraging its suppliers as an interest-free line of credit.
" I tap another data point, watching Patterson's expression shift from nervous uncertainty to dawning concern.
"And speaking of credit, let's talk about Ashworth Capital's current debt-to-equity ratio compared to their projected revenue streams. Specifically, how much of that projected revenue depends on eliminating competition rather than actually creating value. "
One of the goons takes a step toward me, his hand rising as if to snatch the tablet from my grip, but he freezes mid-motion as Knox cuts through the ambient noise of the trade show like a blade through silk.
"Touch her, and I will feed you your own fingers."
The words are spoken almost conversationally, without any particular emphasis or volume, but they carry the absolute certainty of a man who has made good on similar promises many times before.
The goon's hand drops back to his side, and he retreats to his previous position with the careful movements of someone who has just realized they are standing much too close to a large predator.
I don't acknowledge the interruption. I just keep talking, keep presenting data, keep building my case with the relentless precision of someone who has spent years learning to weaponize information in environments where physical strength means nothing.
I show Patterson the margin compression his competitors have experienced after signing exclusive deals with Ashworth.
I show him the delivery disputes, the contract renegotiations, the gradual erosion of supplier autonomy that characterizes every long-term Ashworth partnership.
I show him the numbers—cold, hard, irrefutable numbers—that tell a story Ashworth's smooth words and expensive suits cannot contradict.
By the time I finish, Patterson's face has gone through several interesting color changes, settling finally on a shade of determined resolution that makes my heart sing with vindictive triumph.
"Mr. Ashworth," Patterson says slowly. "I appreciate your interest in a partnership, but I think I need to... reconsider my options."
Ashworth's mask finally cracks, genuine fury flickering across his features before he wrestles his expression back under control. "Patterson, don't be foolish. This company is on the verge of collapse. Bloodaxe is a barbarian playing at business, and his little assistant—"
"His First Mate of the Ledger," Knox corrects, and there is nothing conversational about his tone now.
It rumbles through the booth like the warning growl of something ancient and hungry, and even Ashworth takes an instinctive half-step backward.
"And she has just defeated you with nothing but truth and numbers.
This is the kind of warrior who fights at my side. Can you say the same of yours?"
He gestures dismissively at the assembled goons, who look like they would very much rather be anywhere else at this particular moment.
Ashworth's lips thin into a bloodless line. "This isn't over, Bloodaxe."
"No," Knox agrees, and his smile is all tusks and predatory promise. "It is not. But today's battle is done, and you have lost. Go. Lick your wounds. Prepare for the next engagement. I will enjoy watching you fall."
For a long moment, the two men stare at each other across the booth, the air between them charged with the kind of tension that precedes either violence or retreat.
Then Ashworth turns on his heel and stalks away, his goons trailing after him like scolded puppies, and I feel the breath I didn't realize I was holding rush out of my lungs in a wave of pure relief.