Chapter 3
ROMEE
The silence that follows my threat stretches out like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point, as twenty-three massive Orcs process the reality that I've just weaponized their own appetites against them with the kind of ruthless efficiency usually reserved for hostile corporate takeovers.
Their expressions shift from amused defiance to genuine alarm, and I see the exact moment the math clicks into place behind their amber and gold and deep brown eyes, the horrible realization that three days of green smoothies and kale salads might actually constitute cruel and unusual punishment by their dietary standards.
Garak, the hulking Chief Technology Officer whose tusks are decorated with what looks like actual platinum bands, breaks first. He turns to Thrall with pure betrayal and says, "Boss, the itinerary says 'dry-aged wagyu with chimichurri compound butter and truffle salt.
' If we lose that because you wanted to make a point, I'm filing a formal complaint with HR and requisitioning a new CEO. "
There's a rumble of agreement from the group, a low, collective grumble that sounds like distant thunder rolling across mountains, as Thrall's jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle ticking beneath his moss-green skin.
His eyes lock onto mine and makes my heart stutter despite every professional instinct wanting me to maintain eye contact and not back down, because backing down now would shatter the fragile authority I've managed to establish over this group of corporate warriors who could probably bench-press my car without breaking a sweat.
"You wouldn't. You signed a contract with Horde Tech. Premium catering was explicitly outlined in the service agreement. You're legally obligated to provide it."
I smile, bright and sharp and absolutely devoid of warmth, and tap my tablet screen twice to pull up the exact clause I spent six hours memorizing last night because I knew, I absolutely knew that Thrall was going to be a problem the second I saw his employee file and the notes from his last three HR mandated workshops that all ended with the phrase "non-compliant" stamped across the evaluation forms in angry red letters.
"Section Seven, Subsection D," I recite, my voice crisp and professional despite the fact that my pulse is hammering against my throat hard enough that I'm worried he can see it fluttering beneath my skin.
"Premium catering is contingent upon full participant engagement with scheduled activities.
Any disruption, refusal to participate, or deliberate obstruction of programming gives the event coordinator, that's me, full discretion to modify catering options to basic nutritional standards.
Which means steamed vegetables, whole grain salads, and protein smoothies made with unflavored pea powder.
I had my lawyer review it twice specifically because I was warned that your company has a reputation for eating event planners alive, sometimes literally, and I am not getting chewed up and spit out three months before my promotion review. "
The words tumble out faster than I intend, my professional mask slipping just enough to reveal the bone-deep exhaustion and desperation underneath, because I need this retreat to go perfectly, I need the glowing review from Horde Tech and the portfolio piece that proves I can handle difficult clients and high-pressure situations, and I absolutely cannot afford to let this massive, infuriating Orc derail three months of planning because he thinks feelings circles are beneath his corporate dignity.
Thrall stares at me for a long, breathless moment, his expression unreadable except for the slight narrowing of his eyes that suggests he's recalculating his strategy and reassessing whether I'm actually insane enough to follow through on my threat.
Behind him, I can see his executives exchanging worried glances and whispering among themselves, clearly weighing their loyalty to their CEO against their love of premium beef, and I know with absolute certainty that I've won this particular battle even if I have no idea how I'm going to survive the rest of the war.
"Fine," Thrall finally says, biting off the word like he's chewing glass and hating every second of it.
"Three-legged race. But if this is genuinely pointless, which I'm confident it will be, I'm invoicing your agency for wasted executive productivity hours at our standard consulting rate.
That's four thousand dollars per hour per executive. Do the math."
I do the math instantly, my brain spitting out the number so fast it makes my stomach drop straight through the floor, but I keep my expression smooth and professional because showing fear now would be fatal to my credibility and I've already committed to this insane power play so I might as well see it through to its inevitably disastrous conclusion.
"Noted," I say briskly, turning on my heel and marching toward the wide expanse of manicured lawn that stretches between the lodge and the lake, my tablet pressed against me like armor and my heart hammering so hard I'm amazed it's not audible over the crunch of gravel beneath my sensible flats.
"Everyone to the lawn. We're starting with ice breakers and team-building partnership assignments. Move."
Twenty minutes later, I'm standing in the middle of the lawn surrounded by twenty-three massive Orcs who are arranged in a vaguely circular formation and radiating varying degrees of hostility and resignation, and I'm realizing with slowly dawning horror that my carefully planned team-building exercise has a critical flaw that I somehow failed to anticipate despite three months of meticulous preparation.
The executives shuffle and shift and strategically position themselves next to literally anyone else, their body language screaming discomfort and carefully maintained distance, and it takes me longer than it should to understand that this isn't just typical corporate hierarchy dynamics where underlings avoid the boss to prevent sucking up accusations.
This is genuine, primal fear, the kind that makes grown Orcs who probably deadlift refrigerators for fun instinctively create space around their CEO like he's radioactive or cursed or both.
Garak catches my eye and shakes his head slightly, a warning gesture that's probably meant to be subtle but reads as blatantly obvious given his size, and I remember the notes in Thrall's file about "inappropriate aggression during team exercises" and "requires additional monitoring during high-contact activities" and I suddenly understand exactly why his previous HR coordinators quit.
Thrall stands apart from the group with his arms crossed over his chest and his expression completely blank, and if I didn't know better I'd think he was unbothered by the blatant social exclusion happening right in front of him, but there's a tension in his shoulders and a slight tightness around his eyes that suggests this is a familiar dynamic and he's chosen to respond with aggressive indifference rather than acknowledge the rejection.
I should assign him a partner. I should use my authority as event coordinator to override the group's obvious reluctance and force someone to work with him, because that's the professional thing to do and it's what my training manual explicitly recommends for situations involving social isolation and team dynamics.
But I can see the resentment already building in the executives' faces, the way they're bracing themselves for the possibility that I'm going to make this their problem, and I know instinctively that forcing this issue will destroy any remaining goodwill I've managed to build with the group.
Which leaves exactly one option.
"Thrall," I hear myself say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel despite the fact that my brain is asking me to reconsider this monumentally stupid decision. "You're partnering with me."
The reaction is visceral. Every single Orc turns to stare at me with expressions ranging from shock to concern to barely suppressed amusement, and Garak actually laughs, a short, barking sound that he quickly tries to disguise as a cough when Thrall's head snaps toward him with predatory focus.
Thrall's amber eyes lock onto mine, and there's something dangerous and assessing in his gaze that makes my pulse spike uncomfortably because I've just volunteered to literally tie myself to a man who radiates violence and controlled aggression like other people radiate body heat, and I'm suddenly very aware of exactly how small I am compared to him, how easily he could snap me in half without even trying.
"You're serious," he says, and it's not a question so much as a statement of disbelief, like he's waiting for me to laugh and admit this is some kind of elaborate prank designed to humiliate him in front of his employees.
"Completely serious," I confirm, walking toward the pile of soft fabric ties I brought specifically for this exercise, the ones designed to be secure enough for the activity but easy to remove in case of emergency.
I grab one and march directly up to Thrall's position in the group, forcing myself to maintain eye contact and project confidence I absolutely don't feel.
"Someone has to demonstrate proper technique, and clearly your executives are too intimidated by you to volunteer.
So congratulations, you get me. Try not to break anything important. "