His hand rose to my jaw, tilting my face to better examine the damage beneath the makeup. "And you didn't defend yourself."
He knew me too well to even phrase it as a question.
"They deserved the chance," I said quietly. "To express their anger."
Algerone's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His fingers dropped from my face, leaving a cold absence where his touch had been.
"Go home," he said finally.
The words failed to register properly, as if he'd switched to another language. "I have meetings. The Pentagon briefing. The contract review."
"I'll handle it." His tone left no room for debate. "Go home, Maxime. Rest."
"But—"
"For once, do what I ask without arguing." Something softened in his expression, not quite tenderness but something closer to concern. "The company won't collapse if you take a half day."
A cold spike of dread shot through me. Was this a dismissal? Had my injuries made me a liability? I searched his face for signs of disappointment, for the subtle cues that I'd failed him. "Have I done something wrong?"
His eyes widened slightly. "Wrong? No, Maxime. You need to rest."
I didn't understand. Rest was weakness. Absence was failure. "I've never taken a day off."
"I know." His hand found my elbow, steering me gently toward the door. "That's why I'm ordering you to start now."
Confusion clouded my thoughts. Sick days existed for others. Vacation time applied to normal humans. Not to me, and never to me.
"But the Shaw situation—"
"Will still be here tomorrow." He opened the conference room door. "Your car is waiting downstairs. Go home. That's an order."
I hesitated a moment longer, searching for arguments that might sway him. Finding none, I straightened my jacket and walked stiffly past him into the corridor. My body moved mechanically through the motions of departure while my mind rebelled against the concept. Callum stood nearby, watching with carefully masked surprise as I passed him without instructions.
I pressed the elevator button and waited, my posture military-straight despite the pain. Algerone remained in the doorway, watching to ensure I actually left. The weight of his gaze followed me into the elevator.
The doors closed. I was alone.
The elevator descended in silence. My mind raced through work that would remain undone, problems unsolved, and tasks unassigned. But beneath that familiar anxiety lurked something unexpected, a hollow sensation spreading through my chest that resembled relief.
A black Cadillac Escalade-VESV waited at the curb, engine running almost silently. Not the flashy Bentley or ostentatious Maybach that transported clients. This was different—practical luxury, a vehicle chosen with purpose.
The driver, Williams, one of our most discreet security personnel, opened the rear door without a word. The familiar scent of leather welcomed me as I slid inside. My body sank into the executive rear seating that seemed to anticipate my injuries,supporting without pressing. Williams closed the door with a hushed click, sealing me in perfect silence.
The temperature was exactly 68 degrees, my preferred setting. A silk handkerchief lay folded in the cup holder, pristine white against black leather. Beside it, a bottle of still water rather than sparkling. Algerone remembered I hated carbonation.
I pressed a button, and the seat reclined. Another, and gentle heat spread across my lower back. A third activated a subtle massage function that worked around my injuries.
This wasn't just transportation. This was Algerone speaking without words, telling me that he saw me and knew what I needed. For once, he was taking care of me.
A strange warmth bloomed across my chest. I didn't know how to receive attention like this. My hands fidgeted with the handkerchief, unsure what to do with this care I hadn't earned through service, care that seemed to exist regardless of my utility.
What did it mean that he knew about the carbonation? About the exact temperature? Had I been so transparent all these years while believing myself unreadable?
As the Escalade pulled away from Spade Tower, I watched my purpose and my identity recede in the rear window. The vehicle's height placed me above the chaos of the street, insulated from the world by acoustic glass and magnetic ride control. No bumps and no noise, just a cocoon of calm as Williams navigated through traffic without a word.
The Escalade pulled throughthe wrought-iron gates into the circular driveway of my Clifton estate. The nineteenth-century mansion rose before me, its classical facade bathed in afternoon light. Four Corinthian columns framed the entrance, exactly the kind of gravitas Algerone deemed "suitable for a man of your position."
Williams opened my door without a word. I stood for a moment on the cobblestone drive, staring at the house I'd never learned to inhabit. The front door unlocked with a fingerprint scan, admitting me to the cavernous foyer where my footsteps echoed on marble.
