Perfect. Fucking perfect. I’d made zero headway with Dimitri, and now Michael swoops in mid-failure. Between Dimitri’s stubbornness and Michael’s inevitable criticism, I’m about to get caught in a crossfire of Alpha personalities. This day just keeps getting better.
Michael steps past Brigid as if she were a ghost. She glares at him.
“Mr. Bersa, I’m glad you could finally join us,” I say, polite but firm.
Michael’s gaze darts between Dimitri and me, taking in our stiff postures. A smile spreads across his face—Dimitri’s upper lip curls in response.
I sigh. I’m never going to find a middle ground.
“Please, call me Michael,” he says, still in that eerily friendly voice. “You are here to get my business up and running, which means we are friends, not strangers.”
Brigid and Dimitri exchange a loaded glance, and my stomach turns. They think this proves something.
“Mr. Bersa,” I say evenly, emphasizing Michael’s surname, “I’m here for one reason only—to restore power to Corona’s citizens. Nothing more.” I meet Dimitri’s glare. “And nothing less.”
“Exactly.” Michael’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he steps closer. “The Council sends you here to help me get my lazy crew back to work so I don’t continue to lose money each day the power remains off.” He places a proprietary hand on myshoulder, and I fight the urge to shrug it off. “The queen wants the power restored. So do I. As her representative, we are on the same side.”
The calculated way Michael emphasizes “queen” and “representative” might as well be a match to gasoline. Dimitri’s face contorts. He glances at Brigid, and they share another knowing look, this one screaming “traitor” so loud I can almost hear it.
I grit my teeth. Michael is reworking the narrative.
“Look, Mr. Bersa.” I keep my voice measured, diplomatic. “The queen understands that a stable power grid and fair wages go hand in hand. Your profit margins matter”—I nod at Michael, whose frown deepens—“but so does ensuring the workers who maintain those profits are compensated fairly.” I turn to Dimitri. “The queen wants power restored as soon as possible, which means we need both sides working together. Sign off on the equipment orders and wage adjustments, and everyone gets what they need—including Corona’s citizens, who are counting on all of us.”
Michael brushes away some ash that has fallen on his shirt. “Let me give you some advice, Wilder. Since you are new to having power, if you want to keep it, you must learn that people will walk all over you if you give them so much as an inch. Power stems from control.” He glares at Dimitri. “If you and your crew want to keep your jobs, you will show up to work tomorrow, get this place cleaned up, and you’ll be lucky if I don’t use your wages to pay for the damage you and your strike caused me.”
“The fire was deemed an accident,” Brigid inserts, arms crossed.
“Let me make something clear,” I say, my voice cutting. “The order to restore power comes directly from the queen and Council. If you don’t want to explain why you’re obstructingtheir directive, you’ll stop pointing fingers and authorize Dimitri to order the parts his team needs.”
I let that sink in for a moment. Michael’s smile falters. “The queen doesn’t care about your power plays, Mr. Bersa,” I continue. “She cares about getting Corona’s lights back on. So I suggest we focus on that, unless you’d prefer to discuss your . . . management style with the Council directly?”
Pride shines in Brigid’s eyes, and I fight a smile. “Get used to feeling out of control, Michael,” she sneers. “The War Letters exposed who the real criminals are. You and your Epsilon friends are outnumbered now. The Nebula will take control, and you’ll have to surrender it to us and Stellan.”
“The day that happens, I will be six feet under,” Michael replies in a cold and unyielding voice. As I suspected, the Epsilon won’t sit back and let the Nebula take over. But the Nebula are ready to fight dirty, if they must. Michael and the rest of the Epsilon would rather die than give up power, and the Nebula will die trying to obtain it.
“That can easily be arranged,” Brigid mumbles.
“Brigid, stop,” I warn. Her smile slips.
I glare at Brigid. She’s allied with Stellan, and I don’t need her to make this worse. Her involvement will only muddle an already complicated situation.
“Listen to him, girl.” Michael leers. “He won’t always be here to save your pretty little neck.”
I step between Brigid and Michael. Brigid’s more than capable of putting Michael in his place, but I can’t risk Eddo’s fury if she loses her cool and lands a blow to Michael’s smug face, as much as I wish I could let her. I need to keep this powder keg from igniting.
“Mr. Bersa,” I say. “Can we just?—”
“You’re fired, Dimitri. Let this be a message to your entire crew—show up tomorrow, or you’ll all be replaced. And, Wilder?You can tell Queen Leigh that when the power stays off, it’s because your amateur attempt at playing peacemaker made everything worse.” Michael rolls back his shoulders.
“You arrogant—” Dimitri’s face flushes with rage. He storms toward the control room door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the soot-covered windows.
Heat builds in my palms—power itching to be unleashed—and the ache is almost unbearable.
“Where exactly do you plan to find a new plant manager on such short notice?” I demand through gritted teeth.
Michael’s upper lip curls. “If Dimitri wants to apologize, his job is still here. If not . . .” He shrugs. “Maybe the Crown and Council can send me a qualified replacement.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
