Instead, he asks something entirely different.
"You were shot three days ago?"
"Yes, exactly. Your employee, Mr. Drax, somehow made it back to the island and—"
"You nearly died?"
I hesitate, a faint sense of unease stirring in my chest, but I confirm it with a nod.
"And within three days you fully recovered," he says slowly, drawing out the words.
"Well… yes," I mutter weakly, already aware I’m walking into a trap.
"It would seem either the wounds were not as severe as claimed, or there is an additional factor involved."
Son of a bitch. Yep. His damn analytical mind caught it instantly, processed it, and now the conclusion is right there on his tongue, and it is clearly not in my favor.
Gabriel throws us a slightly uneasy look. Does he already know how it’s going to end up? A long moment of silence follows, but now I have no choice but to say it. Damn it.
"Okay. Yes. We are True Mates. That’s the only thing that saved us. Otherwise, you would have had two corpses on your hands, so I’d say it’s a good thing it turned out that way," I throw out, trying to salvage the situation.
But there is no saving it now.
"You do realize that True Mates are not eligible for this program, correct?"
"We were admitted because at the beginning we didn’t know about it…"
"Do not lie to me."
His voice snaps like a metal lash.
I suddenly remember, feeling like a complete idiot, that it was Blue himself who helped us get into the program, prompted by his nephew Damien, Storm Nolan’s fiancé.
"I allowed you to join the program because I had serious doubts about whether Storm Nolan had assessed your TM status correctly. Yet, I see now that he was right. But this excludes you from the Follow-Up program."
I open my mouth, wanting to add something, but there is nothing I can say, so I close it.
"Therefore, regarding your postulation… Request denied."
Blue’s voice isn’t loud, but to me it lands like a thunderclap.
"The mechanism behind fertility in the case of True Mates is simply not within the scope of interest of BA Follow-Up."
The wordsrequest deniedecho in my head with an unpleasant ring.
I stare at his small face behind those oversized glasses, unmoving, indifferent.
What does such a refusal cost him? I am nothing, a grain of sand. He runs corporations, half the pharmaceutical industry. What can I even say?
"And why isn’t it within your scope of interest?" I blurt out suddenly, foolishly, without thinking it through, probably just to buy myself time to process this and maybe come up with a new argument.
But something unexpected happens.
That last sentence makes Blue Lowen fall silent.
The room goes quiet too. Mr. Lowen turns slightly to the side, his gaze drifting toward an indistinct point on the wall. Subtle flickers appear across his glasses, as if he’s reviewing something in that very moment.
I assume they’re connected to the internet or some database. I’ve seen models like that before, and this one is top-tier, if not custom-made for him.
