Stephen caught my eye. He didn't smile. He just tapped his temple.I'm in the network. I'm watching the words.
I looked to the perimeter.
Mateo was standing by the emergency exit. He was wearing a suit that strained at the shoulders, his earpiece coiled tight against his neck. He wasn't watching the stage. He wasn't watching the screens. He was watching the hands of every person in the room.
He stood with his feet planted, arms crossed, a mountain of cedar and granite. He was the reason I didn't shake. I knew, with a certainty that lived in my marrow, that nothing could get onto this stage without going through him first. And nothing was getting through him.
We fielded questions for another hour. We took every stone they threw and built a wall with it. We didn't apologize. We didn't explain. We just showed the work.
When we finally called time, the mood in the room had shifted. It wasn't hostile anymore. It was resigned. They realized, collectively, that the old world was dead, and we were the ones holding the deed to the new one.
We walked off stage.
The backstage area of the Zurich office was quiet, soundproofed against the noise of the atrium. It was a long, white corridor that smelled of new paint and ozone.
The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind us, the performance dropped.
I sagged, just an inch, the adrenaline draining out of my heels. Juno let out a long, shuddering breath, reaching up to loosen his tie.
"God," Juno whispered. "I hate them. I hate them all so much."
"You were perfect," I said.
"I was arrogant," he corrected, rubbing his eyes. "It’s exhausting."
He looked at me. The adrenaline was fading, leaving him pale and glassy-eyed, the effort of being "Juno the Strategist" taking its toll on the man underneath.
"We did it," I said softy.
"We started it," a deep voice rumbled.
Mateo was there. He had moved from the exit the moment we stepped off stage. He came down the hall like a landslide, gathering momentum.
Stephen was right behind him, closing his laptop, his face flushed with the vicarious high of a perfectly executed argument.
We stood there in the hallway. The four of us.
It wasn't finished. Vance was suing us in three countries. The legal bills were astronomical. The Safe Harbor rollout was going to be a logistical nightmare that would eat my life for the next two years.
But the shape of it was there. We weren't hiding in a cabin. We were standing in a building we owned, fighting a war we were winning.
Stephen moved first.
He didn't go for me. He went for Juno.
He stepped in and pulled Juno against him, one arm wrapping around the slim waist, the other hand cupping the back of Juno’s neck. It was a grounding touch, firm and possessive. Juno melted into it instantly, his forehead dropping to Stephen’s shoulder, the fight draining out of him.
"Breathe,” Stephen murmured, his nose brushing Juno’s hairline. "It’s done."
Then Stephen reached out his free hand. He didn't look at me; he just reached.
I took it. He pulled me in.
I collided with Juno’s side. I wrapped my arm around his waist, feeling the heat of him through the grey suit. He smelled of sweat and expensive cologne andrelief. I laid my head on his shoulder, smelling the burnt sugar ghost that lingered under the sandalwood.
Then the light went out.
Mateo wrapped around us.
