And the name on the meeting request, the person who apparently wants to see me at ten o’clock on a Monday morning for reasons that are not specified and that I can.t begin to imagine—
Is Prince Alexei Lykaios.
I stare at the screen.
And then I do what any rational, professional, emotionally stable adult would do in this situation.
I text Trish.
Me: I think I’m about to be fired by the Prince of Atlantis.
Her response is immediate.
Trish: WHAT
Trish: WHAT
Trish: WHAT???
Yeah.
That about sums it up.
CHAPTER TWO
“THE CONVERGENCE EXPOis held annually at The Hive in Miami. The Hive is House Bellecourt’s headquarters, fifty floors, downtown, and the Bellecourts are—”
“Caros,” I say. “Old bloods. Four brothers. Anti-vampire technology leaders.”
Ruby gives me a look that might be approval. It’s hard to tell with Ruby. Her face operates within a very narrow emotional bandwidth, somewhere between “brisk efficiency” and “slightly less brisk efficiency.”
“Good. Now, His Highness will handle all primary interactions. You don’t speak unless he directs a question to you. You take notes on this.” She hands me a tablet. “All feedback, inquiries, and follow-up items go into the shared file labeled Convergence 2026. You don’t deviate from the file structure. You don’t create new folders. You don’t rename anything.”
I nod. I’m nodding so much I probably look like one of those bobblehead figures people put on their dashboards.
“You address him as Your Highness. Not sir. Not Prince Alexei. Not—” She pauses, as if considering the full range of things a nervous twenty-two-year-old human might accidentally call the Prince of Atlantis. “Anything else.”
“Your Highness. Got it.”
“When walking, you remain one step behind and to his left. If he stops, you stop. If he gestures for you to speak, you speak clearlyand concisely about the product specifications and nothing else. Don’t volunteer personal opinions. Don’t make small talk with delegates. Don’t—”
She’s still going. There are more rules. So many more rules. Ruby is delivering them at a speed that suggests she normally briefs people who can absorb information at preternatural rates, which I can’t, because I’m a human person with a human brain that is currently devoting approximately sixty percent of its processing power to the single thought:How in the world did I end up here?
Because twenty-four hours ago, I was eating onigiri at my desk and redesigning polymer casings. That’s my life. That’s what I’m good at. I’m good at quiet, focused, detail-oriented work that nobody notices until it saves someone’s life in a vampire attack, and I’m very much not good at whatever this is, this Secretary Kim situation where I’m supposed to glide around in heels and anticipate the needs of the world’s most famous preter royal.
All I know is how to design products.
I don’t know how to be this.
“Ruby.”
She blinks.
“I’m a product designer,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. “I know the V-Series inside and out. I built the casing prototypes with my own hands. I can talk about moisture resistance and biodegradable polymers in my sleep.”
I take a breath.
“What I can’t do is be Secretary Kim.”
