Chapter 8 #3
"There you are," Richard announces, his voice carrying across the space with all the authority of someone who has never been challenged in his life. "We need to talk about your consistent inability to meet basic professional standards."
Every Orc in the room turns toward him in unison, their massive frames shifting with a predatory grace that fills the lodge with an almost palpable sense of threat.
Some wear expressions of pure incredulity, as if Richard has just suggested something physically impossible.
Others radiate outright hostility, their amber eyes tracking him like he's prey that's wandered into unfamiliar territory.
They register what I've already assessed. Richard is a mid-level bureaucrat playing dress-up in an expensive suit, currently making the catastrophic error of his professional life.
Romee stands slowly, moving with the controlled precision of someone who has spent years managing chaos.
Her face settles into something carefully blank, a corporate mask so polished it's almost impressive.
But I know her now, know the tells that betray the steel underneath.
I can see the tension coiled through her shoulders, the way her spine goes rigid as she braces for impact.
Her hands curl into fists at her sides, knuckles whitening as she locks everything down, containing the exasperation that's clearly boiling beneath that professional veneer.
"Richard," she begins, her voice taking on that artificially pleasant tone she uses when addressing particularly difficult clients, the one that sets my teeth on edge because I can hear the contempt underneath, thinly veiled beneath layers of corporate courtesy.
"I genuinely don't think this is the time or place for this conversation—"
"I'll decide when it's time," Richard interrupts, moving toward her with the kind of aggressive confidence that only comes from a lifetime of facing zero consequences. "You work for me, Romee. That means when I show up, you make time."
He hasn't even acknowledged the room full of Orcs watching him, hasn't registered the danger, and I understand with cold clarity that this mediocre parasite has spent so long operating without resistance that he genuinely doesn't understand he's walking into a situation he can't control.
I move before I fully register the decision, crossing the room in three long strides and positioning myself directly between Richard and Romee, my full height and bulk finally registering in the human's awareness.
He stops abruptly, his eyes widening as he has to crane his neck back at an increasingly steep angle to meet my gaze, and I observe with grim satisfaction as the first flicker of genuine fear crosses his face, replacing the bloated indignation that had been there moments before.
"You're in my retreat," I tell him quietly, my voice deliberately pitched low, barely above a rumble, the kind of tone that carries absolute authority without needing to rise.
"You're addressing my employee. Without permission.
Without invitation. Without any legitimate reason to be here at all, actually. "
Richard's face flushes a deep, mottled red, the color crawling up his neck as he sputters, his earlier swagger evaporating like mist under pressure.
"Your employee?" he says, the words coming out strangled and defensive.
"Romee works for Pinnacle Events. I'm her direct supervisor, and I'm well within my rights to—" He stops, seeming to realize mid-sentence that his authority means absolutely nothing in this moment, in this place, faced with someone who operates on an entirely different scale.
"No, she's resigning. Effective immediately. Which means you're trespassing."
Richard's mouth opens and closes repeatedly, like a fish suffocating on dry land, his face cycling through an increasingly alarming spectrum of purples and crimsons as the full weight of his powerlessness settles over him. His hands ball into fists at his sides, trembling with impotent fury.
"You can't just steal my employees," he sputters, his voice climbing higher with each word, taking on a shrill quality that echoes off the lodge's wooden beams. "I'll sue you for breach of contract.
I'll destroy your company's reputation with everything I have.
I'll make sure every corporate client in this city knows exactly what kind of unethical operation you're running.
Do you have any idea who I am? Do you understand the connections I have? "
I regard him with the same flat, disinterested expression I'd use to examine a bug on my windshield. His threats wash over me like background noise—irritating, perhaps, but utterly inconsequential against the backdrop of what I've already built, what I'm capable of doing.
"No," I admit with brutal honesty, my voice remaining that same low, dangerous rumble.
"And I don't care. I won't waste the mental energy learning.
" I pause, letting the silence stretch between us like a drawn bowstring.
"You have exactly sixty seconds to remove yourself from this property before I have security escort you out physically.
That's not a threat. That's a timeline. I'd suggest you use it wisely. "
Behind me, I hear Romee make a small, choked sound that might be a laugh or might be pure stress, and Richard's eyes narrow as he seems to finally register what she's wearing.
"Are you—" He looks between us, his expression twisting into something ugly. "You're sleeping with a client? That's a fireable offense, Romee. You just ended your career."
The room goes very, very quiet.
I feel my control slip, feel the civilized veneer I've spent years maintaining crack under pure, territorial rage, and I'm half a second from doing something that will definitely require legal intervention when Romee steps around me, planting herself directly in front of Richard with her chin raised and her eyes blazing.
"I quit," she announces, her voice ringing clear across the lodge. "Effective immediately. I'll send you formal notice by end of business today, but consider this my verbal resignation. I'm done."
Richard stares at her, his face mottled with a shade of fury that's almost impressive in its intensity. His jaw works soundlessly for a moment, as though he's cycling through a dozen different responses, each one more incendiary than the last.
"You ungrateful—" he begins, his voice climbing toward a dangerous pitch.
"Thirty seconds," I interrupt. The words emerge low and rumbling from deep , each syllable weighted with the kind of promise that makes even my own executives shift uncomfortably in their seats.
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and I can see the exact moment his brain catches up to what he's seeing.
The amber of my eyes has probably gone full predator.
My hands are clenched at my sides, tendons standing out like steel cables.
Whatever expression is currently carved into my face apparently reads as a very clear and very final warning.
Discretion, it seems, becomes suddenly appealing to Richard.
"This isn't over," he hisses at Romee, his voice venom-thin as he backs toward the door with jerky, defensive movements. "You'll never work in this industry again. I'll make sure of it. Every connection I have, every—"
Then he's gone, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the windows, and the lodge settles into a charged silence that feels almost physical.
Romee is still standing in the middle of the great room, her entire frame trembling with the adrenaline crash. Her breath is coming in quick, shallow gasps, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. For a moment, she just stands there, processing what she's just done.
I reach for her carefully, making sure the movement is deliberate and obvious—telegraphing every inch of the approach—because the last thing either of us needs right now is for her to flinch away from me. My hand extends slowly, palm open and non-threatening.
She turns into me immediately, almost violently, her face pressing hard against me as her hands fist in the fabric of my shirt. She's gripping the material like it's the only solid thing in a spinning world, her knuckles white with the force of her grip.
"I need," she starts, her voice muffled against the black cotton, "I need to sit down. Or possibly throw up. Or possibly throw something. Preferably all three, in that order, but I'm flexible on the sequencing."
"All three are entirely acceptable options," I tell her, my hand moving in a slow, deliberate line down the length of her spine—a grounding gesture, something to anchor her back to the present moment rather than the chaotic spiral of what she's just done.
"But you're handling this in my cabin, not here in front of an audience. "
She laughs shakily against me, the sound slightly unhinged and raw with residual adrenaline.
Then she pulls back just far enough to look up at me, her dark eyes bright and glassy, searching my face as if trying to determine whether I'm genuinely serious or if this entire conversation has slipped into some kind of shared delusion.
"Did I actually just quit my job?" she asks, her voice carrying the distant tone of someone still processing their own actions. There's a tremor beneath the words, equal parts exhilaration and terror at what she's unleashed.
"Yes."
"And you actually just offered me a position at Horde Tech?" Her disbelief is palpable, almost accusatory, as if she's waiting for me to reveal this as some elaborate joke at her expense.
"Yes."
"Without interviewing me or checking references or literally any normal hiring protocol whatsoever?" She's almost laughing now, the question tumbling out in a rush, her hands still gripping my shirt like she needs the physical proof that this conversation is real.
"Yes," I confirm, then add, because I'm apparently incapable of restraint where she's concerned, "You're also wearing my shirt in front of my entire executive team, which means every Orc in this room now considers you under my protection.
So if you were planning to negotiate the terms of employment, you have significant leverage. "
She stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable, then turns to address the room full of Orcs who are watching this interaction with various levels of fascination.
"Is he always like this?" she asks them seriously, her gaze sweeping across the assembled Orcs with the practiced intensity of someone accustomed to gathering intelligence in hostile boardrooms.
"No," Vrok answers immediately, his massive frame shifting as he leans against the conference table with the ease of someone who has witnessed countless iterations of his boss's temperament.
"Usually he's much less reasonable. You're seeing him at what we might charitably call his most.. . cooperative."
Garak nods in solemn agreement, his eyes glint with something that might be amusement.
"This is actually his warm and accommodating mode.
We consider ourselves fortunate when he merely threatens property damage instead of following through on it.
" He pauses, then adds with what sounds almost like respect, "The fact that he's not currently demolishing something suggests you've made quite an impression. "
Romee turns back to me, her mouth twitching despite everything—despite the adrenaline still coursing through her system, despite the shock of what she's just done, despite standing in a room full of massive Orcs in borrowed clothing that still carries the warmth of my skin.
There's a spark of something defiant in her expression, that familiar glint I've come to recognize as her entering negotiation mode.
"Well then," she says, her voice steady and crisp as fresh paper, "I'm negotiating hazard pay into my contract. Substantial hazard pay. The kind that reflects the genuine occupational risk of working in close proximity to someone who apparently uses property destruction as a management tool."
"Done," I agree instantly. "Now come with me before your former boss decides to return with a lawyer, at which point I will actually have him removed from the property in a manner that requires police reports."
She lets me guide her toward the door, though I feel the moment she hesitates, her body tensing slightly as if pulled by an invisible thread back toward the assembled executives.
Her professionalism, even now, even after everything, refuses to fully release its grip on her consciousness.
She turns back to face them one final time, her posture straightening, her chin lifting with that characteristic determination that has become achingly familiar to me over these endless days of orchestrated team-building exercises and escalating chaos.
"For the record," she announces with the crisp clarity of someone who has spent years commanding rooms full of people twice her size, her voice cutting through the ambient murmur of the lodge with surgical precision, "the afternoon session starts at two o'clock sharp.
Not 2:05. Not 2:01. Two. If anyone is late—if anyone is even remotely late, I am personally canceling the wagyu skewers that catering has spent all morning preparing. "
The collective groan of protest that erupts from the gathered executives is immediate, visceral, and extremely gratifying.
It reverberates through the space like a primal lament, and I feel Romee's hand relax slightly within mine, her shoulders dropping just a fraction as she absorbs the confirmation that her authority remains absolute, that even in this moment of personal upheaval, her control over the retreat's logistics, and therefore over them, remains ironclad and unquestionable.
I pull her out of the lodge and toward my cabin, ignoring the knowing looks from my team, focusing instead on the way her smaller hand fits perfectly into mine and the fierce satisfaction burning through my chest at the knowledge that she's mine now, in every way that matters.
Her boss is a problem I'll solve with lawyers and strategic financial pressure.
But Romee herself? She just became the most important acquisition of my entire career.