Art snorts, a sharp, undignified sound that cuts through the tension like a butter knife through corporate politeness. Then, the moment my head swivels in his direction with a heat-seeking missile, he attempts to disguise it as a cough. It's a pathetic effort. His hand flies up to cover his mouth, his shoulders hunch in a belated attempt at innocence, and he produces a series of unconvincing throat-clearing sounds that wouldn't fool a particularly stupid houseplant.
I catalogue this betrayal for future reference. Art will find his next expense report subjected to extraordinary scrutiny.
My nails dig into my palms. "I assure you, I'm perfectly calm."
"Lies." Thraka leans forward. His eyes are amber, flecked with gold, and far too intelligent for someone who just broke a table with his bare hand. "I have fought in seventeen territorial disputes and negotiated peace treaties between clans who wanted to eat each other. I know stress. You wear it like armor."
"Mr. Thraka." Pemberton clears his throat. "Perhaps we should let everyone return to their duties and schedule individual meetings to discuss department needs."
"No." Thraka straightens. "I will start here. With this one." He points at me again. "She is the keystone. Fix the keystone, the arch holds."
I open my mouth to inform him that I am not a structural element and I don't require fixing, but Pemberton cuts me off.
"Excellent initiative. Orla, why don't you show Thraka to his new office and brief him on our current projects?"
It's not a question.
It's an order dressed in the careful pleasantry of corporate theater, and I've worked here long enough, survived here long enough, to recognize the difference between a suggestion and a directive. The subtext is clear. Pemberton wants me out of this conference room before I can voice any of the seventeen objections currently queuing up like planes in a holding pattern.
I stand. Smooth my skirt with deliberate precision, erasing imaginary wrinkles that don't exist because I don't allow wrinkles to exist. Collect my tablet from the table and position it against my ribs like a shield, or perhaps body armor. The cool weight of it is familiar, grounding. "Of course," I say, my voice perfectly level, perfectly professional, perfectly devoid of the screaming happening inside my skull.
Thraka picks up his metal briefcase—his "briefcase" that I'm ninety percent certain contains beef jerky and possibly a small weapon. He grins at me with all those teeth, that wide barbaric smile that probably makes enemies flee and apparently makes Art giggle like a schoolgirl.
"Lead the way, anxious one," he says, his voice carrying across the conference room like he's addressing troops before battle. "I will fix you."
The absolute audacity.
The sheer unmitigated gall.
The breathtaking presumption that I require fixing, as if I'm a broken printer or a malfunctioning spreadsheet rather thana highly competent professional who has this entire operation running like a Swiss watch.
I turn on my heel, stilettos clicking against polished floor, and walk out of Conference Room A with my spine straight and my jaw clenched and my Fitbit probably preparing to call emergency services.
Behind me, Thraka's footsteps thud against the commercial-grade carpeting like war drums echoing across a battlefield, each step deliberate, heavy, utterly unconcerned with the concept ofinside voiceorprofessional demeanoror any of the other social contracts that hold civilized society together.
This is fine.
This is completely, totally, absolutely fine.
I have handled hostile acquisitions. I have handled budget cuts. I have handled that time Gerald from Accounting tried to expense a trip to Vegas as "team building." I can certainly handle one extremely large, extremely confident, extremely persistent orc who apparently thinks my stress levels are a problem he can solve through sheer force of personality and what I can only assume will be wildly inappropriate therapeutic techniques.
I survived a master's degree in Business Administration. I survived three corporate restructures. I survived the time someone microwaved fish in the break room for a week straight.
I can survive one orc who thinks I smell like coffee and poor life choices.
The elevator is blessedly empty when we step inside. I jab the button for the third floor where the empty corner office sits waiting for whatever fresh hell Pemberton decides to inflict on my carefully maintained ecosystem.
The doors slide shut.
We stand in silence. Me staring straight ahead at the brushed steel doors. Thraka taking up seventy percent of the available space and all of the available oxygen.
"You hold your breath when you are angry," he observes.
I exhale sharply through my nose. "I'm not angry."
"More lies." He sounds delighted. "You are a fortress of lies held together with coffee and spite. I like this. Fortresses are interesting. They have weak points."
"I don't have weak points."
