I pause, considering the question with the weight it deserves, then answer with complete honesty. "Poorly.Inefficiently. Through layers of bureaucratic nonsense and liability mitigation." I close my eyes, pressing my fingertips against my temples where a headache is already forming, mentally cataloging every worst-case scenario and preparing contingency plans for the impending disaster. "And they absolutely, categorically, under no circumstances involve territorial claiming rituals or declarations of ownership to senior leadership."
The CEO's office occupies the top floor, naturally. Corner office, floor-to-ceiling windows, view of the city spreading below like a kingdom. The desk costs more than my car. The art on the walls costs more than my condo.
Power, displayed with architectural precision.
The CEO, Richard, fifteen years my senior, Harvard MBA, three divorces, zero sense of humor, sits behind that massive mahogany desk like a king upon his throne. His fingers are steepled in that particular way senior executives learn at some secret seminar on intimidation tactics. His expression remains carefully, deliberately neutral. Boardroom face. The one that reveals nothing, concedes nothing, promises nothing.
"Ms. Peace. Mr. Thraka." His voice is smooth, modulated, the vocal equivalent of expensive scotch. "Please, sit."
The chairs positioned before his desk are guest chairs—Italian leather, minimalist design, and critically, measurably lower than his own seat. Another power play, one I've seen executed in a dozen different configurations across a dozen different companies. The psychology is transparent: position yourself above your subordinates, literally and figuratively. Make them look up. Make them feel small.
I sit with practiced precision, crossing my ankles in the way finishing school etiquette guides recommend, folding my hands primly in my lap. Professional. Composed. Giving awayabsolutely nothing despite the fact that my heart is attempting to jackhammer its way through my ribcage.
Thraka sits beside me, and the chair creaks ominously beneath his considerable weight, the metal frame protesting this structural burden it was never designed to accommodate.
"I'll be direct." The CEO opens a folder, scans the contents though I suspect he's memorized every word. "We received several incident reports from the team-building retreat. Concerning fraternization between employees."
My throat goes dry.
"Fraternization is against company policy, as outlined in Section 7.3 of the Employee Handbook. Romantic or sexual relationships between coworkers create liability issues, potential harassment claims, and workplace disruption."
"Orla did not harass me." Thraka's voice rumbles, defensive. "I pursued her. I claimed her. This is not harassment. This is courtship."
"Mr. Thraka, please let me finish." The CEO's voice remains level, professional, though I detect the slightest edge of strain beneath the corporate veneer. The kind of tension that suggests he's beginning to realize that standard HR protocols may not apply to someone who genuinely doesn't recognize their authority.
"You accuse my mate of wrongdoing." Thraka's voice drops lower, acquiring that dangerous resonance that I've learned to recognize as a prelude to action. His hands grip the armrests of his chair with enough force that I hear the metal groan. "This is insult. Insults require response. Satisfaction must be given."
I reach over quickly, placing my hand on his forearm in warning. His muscle jumps beneath my fingers, coiled and battle-ready, practically vibrating with restrained aggression. Every instinct in his considerable body is clearly screaming at him to do something physical, something immediate, somethingthat would absolutely result in security being called. "Thraka. Let him talk. Please."
The CEO's eyebrow raises fractionally, the only outward sign of his surprise at this interaction. At my familiarity with Thraka's body language, my ability to intercede. "Your mate?"
"Yes." Thraka's declaration fills the office, proud and utterly certain, as if he's stating an immutable fact of nature rather than describing a relationship that began approximately seventy-two hours ago. "I have claimed her. She is mine. I am hers. This is law. This is sacred bond. No one can break this."
"This is a corporation, Mr. Thraka, not a clan." The CEO folds his hands on the desk, reclaiming control of the conversation with the patience of someone who has dealt with difficult personalities before—though probably none quite like this. "We have different laws here. Different rules. Different protocols that govern professional conduct."
Thraka stands abruptly, the chair shooting backward, hitting the wall. "Then I challenge your laws. I challenge your authority over my mate. If you wish to separate us, you must face me in combat."
Oh god.
"Thraka, sit down." I stand too, positioning myself between seven feet of furious orc and my boss. "Nobody is fighting anybody. That's not how we resolve conflicts here."
"It is the only honorable way," Thraka insists, his voice dropping to that low rumble that usually precedes either violence or very aggressive affection. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white with tension. "Where I come from, when laws are unjust, when they threaten sacred bonds, when chieftains overstep their authority, we challenge. We fight. We prove our worth through strength and conviction. This is tradition. This is honor. This is?—"
"It's the only way that gets you arrested," I interrupt sharply, placing one hand flat against his chest, not pushing, just anchoring, grounding him in this reality instead of whatever primal code of conduct is currently flooding his brain with terrible ideas. I can feel his heartbeat thundering beneath my palm, rapid and fierce, his entire body coiled like a spring ready to launch him into catastrophically poor decision-making. "Thraka, listen to me. Really listen. This isn't your world. You can't challenge people to combat duels every time something doesn't go your way. That's called assault. There are laws, actual laws with actual consequences, and I am not spending my weekend bailing you out of a holding cell because you tried to challenge the CEO to a fight in his own office."
The CEO watches this exchange with the detached interest of someone observing a particularly dramatic reality show. "Ms. Peace, do you share Mr. Thraka's sentiment? Regarding your relationship?"
The question hangs in the air, heavy with implications.
I could lie. Should lie. Protect my career, my five-year plan, my professional life.
"Yes." The word escapes before I can stop it, truth slipping past all my defenses. "I do."
Silence stretches, broken only by the muted sounds of the city beyond the windows.
"I see." The CEO closes the folder, a gesture of finality. "Then we have a problem. Company policy clearly prohibits romantic relationships between employees in the same department. However, I recognize that Mr. Thraka's integration into corporate culture has been challenging, and Ms. Peace has been instrumental in that transition."
Hope sparks, tiny and fragile.
