Chapter 9
ROMEE
Idon't have time to process what just happened in that lodge, the feeling of Thrall's scent wrapped around me as every single Orc in that room shifted their entire demeanor the moment they caught it on my skin, the visceral satisfaction of watching my former boss flee like a scolded child.
My brain, still operating on the fumes of adrenaline and caffeine, is trying desperately to catalog and compartmentalize these events into something resembling a coherent narrative when the main doors to the lodge swing open again.
Richard Hartwell stands in the doorway, his pale face flushed an alarming shade of crimson, his expensive but ill-fitting suit rumpled from what must have been a frantic drive up the mountain.
He's breathing hard, his chest heaving beneath his monogrammed shirt, and the expression on his face is one I've seen approximately two hundred times before—the specific blend of wounded ego and performative outrage he deploys whenever a client dares to question his authority or, worse, compliments my work directly instead of routing their praise through him.
"Romee Lin," he announces loudly, his voice pitched to carry across the entire space with the theatrical projection of someone who believes volume equals authority.
"We need to have a conversation. Immediately.
About your absolute failure to maintain professional boundaries and your shocking disregard for the agency's reputation. "
Every head in the room turns toward him.
The assembled Horde Tech executives, who moments ago were groaning about the potential loss of premium beef, now focus on this new disruption with the collective attention of predators identifying movement in their peripheral vision.
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees, though I suspect that's merely my perception responding to the sudden spike of ice-cold fury flooding my veins.
I feel Thrall move behind me, his massive presence shifting with the kind of controlled violence that precedes someone picking up a smaller object and launching it through a window.
His hand is still wrapped around mine, his grip tightening fractionally as if anchoring himself against the urge to physically intervene.
The rumble building in his chest is audible, a low frequency vibration I feel through my spine where his body nearly touches mine.
But I don't need him to fight this battle.
I've been preparing for this confrontation for approximately three years, seven months, and eleven days.
"Richard," I say calmly, extracting my hand from Thrall's grip with a gentle squeeze that I hope communicates I've got this before stepping forward to face my boss fully.
My bare feet make no sound against the polished lodge floor, and I'm acutely aware that I'm still wearing Thrall's shirt, that my hair is loose and uncombed, that I probably look nothing like the rigidly professional version of myself that Richard is accustomed to controlling.
"You weren't scheduled to arrive until the final day.
Your presence here suggests either a catastrophic organizational failure on your part or a deliberate choice to disrupt a client event mid-execution. Which is it?"
His mouth opens, closes, then opens again like a fish gasping on a dock. "Don't you dare take that tone with me. I received multiple complaints about your conduct—"
"From whom?" I interrupt, my voice sharp and precise as a scalpel.
"Please specify the source of these complaints.
Names, timestamps, and the exact nature of the grievance.
I maintain comprehensive documentation of all client interactions, and I'd like to cross-reference these alleged complaints against my records. "
Richard's face flushes darker. "That's not—you don't get to—I am your supervisor, Romee. I don't owe you explanations. What I do require is an immediate clarification about why you are dressed like that, in front of clients, undermining the professional image of Pinnacle Events."
Behind me, Vrok makes a sound that might charitably be described as a suppressed laugh. Garak coughs into his fist. I don't turn around, but I can feel the entire room watching this exchange with the rapt fascination of people witnessing a spectacular collision in slow motion.
"My attire is the result of an emergency situation involving unexpected severe weather that compromised my original clothing," I explain with the flat, factual delivery of someone reading from a disaster preparedness manual.
"Mr. Orkenshade provided dry garments to prevent hypothermia.
It was a practical solution to an immediate logistical problem.
If you're suggesting I should have prioritized appearance over basic safety protocols, I'd be happy to file that recommendation with HR alongside the eighteen previous incidents where you've demonstrated a fundamental misunderstanding of occupational health standards. "
"Eighteen," Thrall murmurs behind me, his voice carrying a note of dark satisfaction that sends an entirely inappropriate shiver down my spine.
Richard's expression shifts from outraged to calculating, his eyes narrowing as he switches tactics with the transparent desperation of someone realizing their opening gambit has failed.
"This is exactly the kind of insubordination I've been dealing with for years.
You think you're indispensable, Romee, but you're not.
You're a glorified party planner with delusions of grandeur.
Without my connections, without my agency's reputation, you're nothing. "
The words land exactly where he intends them to, that soft, vulnerable place I've carefully armored over with spreadsheets and color-coded itineraries and the desperate belief that if I just work hard enough, perform flawlessly enough, prove my value thoroughly enough, I'll finally be safe from this exact moment.
For approximately three seconds, I feel the old familiar panic start to claw its way up my throat, the voice that whispers he's right, you're nothing without this job, you'll lose everything.
Then I remember Thrall's hands on my waist. The way he looked at me last night like I was the single most fascinating problem he'd ever encountered.
The note on my pillow written in bold, possessive script.
The way every Orc in this room treated me with instant, bone-deep respect the moment they caught his scent on my skin.
I am so much more than Richard Hartwell's convenient scapegoat.
"You're absolutely right," I say clearly, and watch his expression shift toward triumph before I continue.
"Without your agency's reputation, I would be functioning under my own professional brand.
Which, based on client retention data, would be significantly more successful than your current model. "
Richard's face goes carefully blank. "Excuse me?"
"I have the numbers memorized, Richard. Would you like me to recite them?
" I don't wait for his response, pulling years of suppressed frustration into clean, devastating clarity.
"In the past three years, Pinnacle Events has maintained a seventy-three percent client retention rate.
The industry standard is eighty-five percent.
However, if we isolate only the events I personally managed, that retention rate jumps to ninety-seven percent.
Of the three clients I lost, two were because you personally intervened in the planning process against my explicit recommendations, and one was due to the client relocating their headquarters to Singapore. "
"That's—those numbers are—" Richard sputters, his composure fracturing visibly.
"Accurate," I finish calmly. "I maintain comprehensive records.
I also maintain records of every client testimonial specifically praising my work, which you've systematically removed from the agency website and replaced with generic corporate language.
I have documentation of the Sanderson wedding, which you billed at forty-five thousand dollars but claimed I'd mismanaged when the client asked why the final invoice was seven thousand over budget.
The overages were due to last-minute additions you approved without consulting me, then blamed me for during the post-event review. "
The room has gone absolutely silent. I'm dimly aware of Thrall's presence behind me, solid and immovable as a mountain, but I don't need to look at him to know he's watching this with that fierce, focused intensity he usually reserves for hostile board meetings and contract negotiations.
"I have emails," I continue, my voice steady despite the way my heart is hammering against my ribs.
"Hundreds of emails where you took credit for my concepts, my vendor relationships, my crisis management solutions.
The Matsuda corporate merger gala that won the Regional Event Planning Excellence Award last year?
You accepted that award personally and thanked your 'dedicated team' without mentioning my name once, despite the fact that I designed every element of that event, managed a vendor crisis involving a collapsed ice sculpture, and personally negotiated a fifteen percent discount with the venue when your initial budget projections were catastrophically wrong. "
Richard's mouth works soundlessly. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, his whole body vibrating with a rage he can't quite articulate because everything I'm saying is documented, provable, and devastatingly accurate.