Chapter 10 #2
"Of course, Monsieur." Madame Fontaine is already snapping her fingers at assistants who seem to materialize from the walls themselves, a flurry of activity surrounding us as the boutique's staff leaps into action.
"We will have everything delivered to your office by tomorrow afternoon.
And if I may say so you will devastate them. "
The Meridian Foundation gala takes place in the penthouse ballroom of the Chrysler Building, a space so drenched in Art Deco elegance that I half expect the ghosts of jazz-age industrialists to materialize from the gleaming steel walls and challenge me to a duel for daring to invade their territory.
The room is filled with the cream of New York's financial elite, men and women in tailored finery whose combined net worth could probably fund a small country, and they all turn to look as Cypress and I make our entrance.
I have chosen my armor carefully for this engagement—a black three-piece suit with subtle silver threading that catches the light when I move, my tusks polished and decorated with the platinum bands that mark me as a chieftain of the Bloodaxe clan, my briefcase left behind in favor of a single silver signet ring that belonged to my grandfather and carried him through a hundred successful conquests.
I look, I hope, like a predator who has chosen to wear civilization as a costume, the kind of threat that cannot be ignored but must be respected.
But it is Cypress who commands the room's attention.
She moves through the crowd like a blade through silk, the midnight fabric of her gown catching the light and scattering stars across the floor in her wake.
The hairstyle that Madame Fontaine's team created for her—an elaborate arrangement of curls and braids that exposes the long line of her neck—makes her look like a queen holding court among lesser beings.
And the way she carries herself, spine straight and chin lifted and eyes sharp with intelligence, turns every head in the room as we pass.
"They are staring," she murmurs to me, her lips barely moving as she maintains a serene smile for the assembled guests.
"Of course they are staring." I place my hand on the small of her back, feeling the warmth of her bare skin through the gap in the gown's fabric, and guide her deeper into the crowd.
"You are the most dangerous weapon in this room, and some part of their primitive human brains recognizes the threat. "
"That is either incredibly flattering or deeply concerning. I cannot decide which."
"Both." I flash my teeth at a cluster of hedge fund managers who are eyeing us with a mixture of curiosity and alarm. "It is always both."
The next two hours are a masterclass in combined arms warfare, Cypress and I moving through the gala like a perfectly coordinated strike force.
She engages the intellectual targets, drawing them into conversations about market trends and regulatory frameworks that showcase the razor-sharp brilliance of her mind, while I provide the physical presence that keeps potential interlopers at bay and demonstrates that our organization has the strength to back up its strategic vision.
When a particularly aggressive rival tries to corner Cypress near the bar, I simply appear at her shoulder and stare down at him until he finds somewhere else to be.
When an elderly trust fund patriarch attempts to dismiss me as "that green fellow," Cypress produces a string of statistics about Orc-led companies' outperformance in the current market that leaves him spluttering into his champagne.
And then we spot our target.
Evelyn Thorne stands at the center of a small cluster of admirers near the windows overlooking Manhattan's glittering skyline, her silver hair perfectly coiffed and her black gown dripping with pearls that probably belonged to European royalty at some point.
She is the managing director of the Thorne Family Trust, a multi-generational wealth management firm with three billion dollars in assets under management, and landing her as a client would not merely meet our thirty-day goal—it would shatter it.
"She has been watching us for the last forty minutes," Cypress observes, her eyes tracking our target's position without appearing to look directly at her. "Every time we make a successful connection with another guest, she glances over. She is assessing."
"Then let us give her something to assess." I offer Cypress my arm, and she takes it without hesitation, her fingers curling around my bicep with a confidence that sends a thrill of warmth through my heart. "Time to close this conquest."
We approach Evelyn Thorne's circle with the measured pace of diplomats entering hostile territory, and the admirers surrounding her part before us like waves before the prow of a warship.
Up close, Evelyn is even more formidable than her reputation suggests—her pale eyes miss nothing, and the smile that crosses her face as we approach has the quality of a predator recognizing a worthy opponent.
"Mr. Bloodaxe. I have heard a great deal about you over the past few weeks. My colleagues at Harrington Financial were particularly... vocal about their recent experiences with your organization."
"Mrs. Thorne." I bow over her hand in the old style, noting the flicker of surprise that crosses her face at the gesture.
"I hope you will allow me the opportunity to provide you with a more direct assessment of our capabilities, rather than relying on the accounts of those we have bested in the arena of commerce. "
"Bested." Her smile sharpens. "That is one word for what you did to Harrington's market share."
"I prefer to think of it as 'liberated their clients from the burden of mediocre portfolio management.
'" Cypress steps forward, extending her own hand with a confidence that makes my heart swell with pride.
"Cypress Evans, First Mate of Strategic Operations.
And with respect, Mrs. Thorne, Harrington Financial was already hemorrhaging clients before we arrived.
We simply provided a compelling alternative for investors who were tired of watching their returns stagnate while their management fees climbed. "
Evelyn Thorne's eyes narrow with interest, her attention shifting fully to Cypress for the first time.
"You are the one who found the bylaw that blocked Harrington's foreclosure attempt."
"I am."
"And the one who restructured the supply chain contracts to eliminate their chokehold on your operations."
"Also me." Cypress produces her tablet from the small crystal-studded clutch that Madame Fontaine insisted was an essential accessory, her fingers dancing across the screen with practiced efficiency.
"And if you will allow me approximately three minutes of your time, I can show you exactly what we could do for the Thorne Family Trust's current portfolio allocation. "
What follows is the most beautiful display of intellectual combat I have ever witnessed.
Cypress walks Evelyn through a comprehensive analysis of her fund's current holdings, identifying inefficiencies and opportunities with a precision that leaves even the calculating Mrs. Thorne visibly impressed.
She presents projected returns based on our strategic approach, supports each claim with hard data and historical precedent, and counters every objection before Evelyn can fully articulate it.
And through it all, I stand at her shoulder like a silent promise—a reminder that this brilliant strategist comes backed by the physical power to defend her conquests and crush any who would challenge her position.
By the time Cypress closes her presentation, Evelyn Thorne is no longer looking at us like opponents to be evaluated. She is looking at us like weapons she wants to add to her arsenal.
"I will have my lawyers review your contract proposal by end of business Monday," she announces, reaching out to shake first Cypress's hand and then mine with a grip that speaks of genuine respect.
"And assuming everything is in order, I believe we may have the foundation for a very profitable partnership. "
"We look forward to conquering new markets together," I rumble, and for once Evelyn does not flinch at my war terminology.
She laughs instead—a sharp, delighted sound—and raises her champagne glass in a toast.
"To conquest, then. May our enemies weep at our success."
The town car is waiting for us at the curb when we finally escape the gala, its engine purring with the quiet power of German engineering and excessive financial resources.
I hold the door for Cypress as she slides into the back seat, her gown pooling around her like liquid starlight, and then I fold myself into the space beside her and let out a breath that carries three weeks of tension with it into the climate-controlled air.
"We did it. Knox, we actually did it. The Thorne Family Trust. Three billion dollars in assets under management. That is not just meeting our goal—that is annihilating it."
"You did it." I grab the champagne that waits in the car's built-in ice bucket, pouring two glasses of the golden liquid with hands that are not entirely steady. "I merely provided the intimidating backdrop. You were the one who conquered her."
"We make a good team." She accepts the glass I offer, her fingers brushing against mine in a way that sends electricity crackling up my arm. "Your presence kept the other sharks at bay while I made the pitch. I could not have done it without you watching my back."
"And I could not have done any of this without you watching my numbers." I raise my glass, watching the streetlights of Manhattan slide past the tinted windows like falling stars. "To conquest."
"To conquest."
We drink, and the champagne is crisp and cold and tastes like victory on my tongue.
The adrenaline of the evening is still singing through my veins, making everything seem sharper and more vivid than it should—the gleam of the crystals on Cypress's gown, the soft curve of her mouth as she smiles, the way the streetlights catch in her eyes and make them glow like amber held up to firelight.
"I cannot believe we pulled that off." She drains her glass and reaches for the bottle to pour herself another, her movements loose and easy in a way I have never seen from her before.
The professional armor she usually wears has cracked, revealing something softer and warmer underneath, and I find myself leaning closer without making a conscious decision to do so.
"I kept waiting for something to go wrong.
For someone to realize I do not actually belong in places like that.
But we just—we walked in and we took what we wanted and no one could stop us. "
"No one could stop you." I set my glass aside, suddenly uninterested in champagne when there is something far more intoxicating within arm's reach.
"You were magnificent tonight, Cypress. You stood in a room full of humans who have been wielding wealth as a weapon since before you were born, and you made them listen.
You made them respect you. You made Evelyn Thorne—a woman who has broken careers for entertainment—look at you like an equal. "
"Knox—"
"I am proud of you.More proud than I have words to express. You are the finest warrior I have ever had the honor to fight beside."
My hands close around her waist, the fabric of her gown sliding like water against my palms, and I lift her as easily as I would lift a weapon—except she is not a weapon, she is warm and soft and making a small sound of surprise that does devastating things to my self-control—and I settle her directly onto my lap, her knees bracketing my thighs and her hands landing on my shoulders for balance and her face suddenly mere inches from my own.
"Knox What are you—"
"I am claiming my victory celebration." I slide one hand up her spine, feeling the warmth of her bare back against my palm, and use the other to cup the curve of her hip through the thin fabric of her gown. "Unless you would prefer I stop."
Her eyes are dark and endless in the dim light of the car, her pulse visible in the hollow of her throat, her fingers tightening on my shoulders in a grip that is anything but a rejection.
"Do not stop," she breathes. "Do not you dare stop."