Chapter 12
THRALL
Istand outside Romee's apartment building for a full three minutes, staring at the cracked concrete steps and peeling paint on the security door, trying to convince myself this is a terrible idea.
It doesn't work.
I've tried everything else. Professional distance. Giving her space. Respecting her very clearly stated boundaries about not wanting my interference or my money or my high-handed Orc protection.
Absolute radio silence while I monitored her new business launch from afar like some kind of obsessive stalker, resisting the urge to send clients her way or anonymously fund her startup costs or show up at her door demanding she let me fix everything.
And then Joffrey sent out the RFP emails yesterday, and I've been a complete wreck ever since, checking my phone every thirty seconds to see if she responded, if she submitted a proposal, if she told us to go to hell.
She submitted at 4:47 this morning.
I read her proposal six times before my morning coffee finished brewing.
It's perfect. Thorough, creative, exactly calibrated to our company culture and shareholder expectations.
She anticipated problems I haven't even thought of yet and built contingency plans for scenarios that would make most event planners collapse into nervous breakdowns.
She's brilliant. She's always been brilliant, the kind of brilliant that doesn't just solve problems but anticipates them before they even materialize, that builds entire architectural frameworks where lesser planners would only see chaos.
I've watched her work for years, and every single time she delivers something that exceeds expectations so thoroughly it makes everyone else's efforts look like amateur hour.
And now I'm about to completely destroy her professional boundaries by showing up at her apartment unannounced, like some kind of obsessive, boundary-violating tech CEO who can't take a hint or respect a woman's clearly stated need for space and distance.
The rational part of my mind, the part that built a multi-billion-dollar company through calculated decisions and disciplined restraint, is screaming that this is a catastrophic tactical error.
That I should turn around, walk back to my car, and let this play out through proper channels like a normal, functioning human being.
I adjust my tie for the fourth time, my tusks catching the weak afternoon light as I shift my weight.
The white gold caps feel heavier than usual.
I smooth down the front of my custom-tailored charcoal suit, the fabric stretched taut across my chest, and then I press the buzzer for unit 3B with one massive finger.
The intercom crackles to life with a burst of static.
"Hello?" Her voice filters through the speaker, cautious and professional, completely devoid of any recognition.
Her voice sends a jolt of pure electricity straight through my chest. I haven't heard it in three weeks, and the sound of it makes my hands clench involuntarily against my sides.
"Romee. It's Thrall."
Long silence. I can practically hear her internal debate through the cheap plastic speaker, weighing her options between buzzing me in or telling me to leave.
"Why are you here?"
Professional. Guarded. Entirely devoid of the breathless vulnerability that had escaped her voice in my cabin that night, when her carefully constructed walls had finally crumbled. She's rebuilt them now, brick by brick, and they're higher than ever.
"Contract consultation. You submitted a proposal three weeks ago. I'm here to discuss the terms in detail, the specifics that require a face-to-face conversation, not some sterile email chain."
She shifts her weight, her jaw tightening. "You could have emailed. Or scheduled a call. Or literally used any of the dozen conventional methods of communication available to a man in your position."
"I could have," I agree, taking in the sight of her, the messy knot of hair, the defensive crossing of her arms, the way she's deliberately keeping the coffee table between us like a barricade.
My lips quirk into that dark, amused drawl that I know drives her absolutely insane.
"But I'm here instead, standing in your living room, taking up approximately sixty percent of your available oxygen.
And you haven't thrown me out yet, which is interesting, considering how much you clearly want to. "
Another silence, longer this time. Then the door buzzes, and I'm moving before she can change her mind, taking the stairs two at a time until I'm standing in front of her apartment door.
She opens it before I can knock.
The sight of her punches the air straight out of my lungs.
She's wearing black leggings and an oversized sweater that keeps sliding off one shoulder, her hair pulled into a messy knot on top of her head with what looks like a mechanical pencil stuck through it. No makeup, no tailored armor, no clipboard pressed against her chest like a shield.
She looks exhausted in a way that no amount of her usual polished armor could ever conceal, the kind of bone-deep tiredness that comes from weeks of managing impossible people and their impossible demands.
But there's something else there too, beneath the fatigue, something that makes her look almost achingly beautiful in this unguarded moment.
Her eyes are softer without the sharp edge of her boardroom gaze, her features stripped of their usual aggressive competence.
The possessive thought that crashes through me is
primal. Mine.
I shove it down violently, wrestling it back into whatever dark corner of my brain it crawled out of.
Now is not the time for that kind of thinking.
Not when she's standing there looking vulnerable and exhausted and completely unaware of how dangerous that combination is to my carefully maintained control.
I straighten, to adopt the measured, professional tone that has served me well in countless boardrooms and investor meetings.
"May I come in?" I ask, and I'm impressed by how steady my voice sounds when everything inside me is clawing to cross that threshold and pull her against me.
She steps back wordlessly, gesturing me into the tiny apartment. I have to duck slightly to clear the doorframe, and once I'm inside, the space feels absurdly, almost comically small. Her entire living room would fit inside my executive cabin bathroom.
But it's clean, organized, efficient. Very Romee.
"You didn't need to come in person," she says, closing the door behind me and crossing her arms defensively. "I submitted the proposal through the proper channels. Your assistant said I'd hear back by Friday."
"You will." I pull a leather portfolio from my briefcase, setting it carefully on her kitchen table. "But I wanted to discuss an additional opportunity."
Her eyes narrow with immediate suspicion. "What kind of opportunity?"
"A service contract. Exclusive event planning partnership with Horde Tech for the next three years, covering all corporate events, shareholder meetings, product launches, and executive retreats globally."
I slide the contract across the table toward her with deliberate slowness, watching it glide across the polished surface.
It's seventy-three pages long, thick, imposing, bound in cream-colored leather with the Horde Tech logo embossed in sharp silver lettering.
Our legal team has spent the past two weeks meticulously drafting every clause, every contingency, every loophole I specifically instructed them to leave open in my favor.
I know every word of it. I've read it approximately twelve times.
She stares down at the portfolio without moving, her arms still crossed defensively across her chest, that particular tension settling into her shoulders that tells me she already knows exactly what this is. Her voice, when she finally speaks my name, carries a note of exhausted resignation.
"Thrall," she says quietly, and there's warning in it.
"Read it first," I respond, keeping my tone measured and reasonable, the same tone I use in board meetings when I'm about to make a decision that will cost someone their bonus.
Except this time, the only person I'm willing to lose money on is her.
"You're intelligent enough to understand that jumping to conclusions wastes both our time. "
"I don't need to read it to know exactly what this is," she snaps, finally meeting my eyes with that familiar flash of fire. "This is precisely the kind of interference I told you explicitly that I didn't want. The kind where you use your money and your corporate leverage to—"
"It's not interference. It's business." I keep my voice level, professional, even though every instinct expects me to cross the room and pin her against the wall until she stops being so stubborn.
"You run an event planning company. I run a tech company that requires approximately forty-seven corporate events per year.
This is a standard vendor relationship."
"There is nothing standard about this."
"Then read the contract and tell me specifically which terms you find objectionable."
She glares at me, her jaw set in that familiar stubborn line that makes me want to bite it. But she picks up the contract, flipping through the pages with sharp, efficient movements.
She reads, tracking the way her eyebrows gradually climb higher on her forehead as she processes the terms. The payment structure. The creative control clauses. The liability protections. The termination rights.
"This is ridiculous," she says finally, looking up at me with something between fury and disbelief.
"These terms are completely weighted in my favor.
You're offering me more money than most agencies make in five years, with full creative control and minimal oversight.
And the termination clause lets me walk away at any point with thirty days' notice while you're locked in for the full three years unless I breach contract. "