“Ahh,” she utters with scarcely contained glee that she dutifully tucks away. “We’ve never seen one. Wells and I were already married. And no chair has been married after we joined. Only supporting executive roles, as you know, but from what I understand, those are less intense.”
“Less intense?” I nearly choke on that parroted tidbit, the recollection of my sister’s torment assaulting me.
“Well, maybe not,” she amends. “We’ve seen some harrowing tests, but … loyalty for the spouse of a chair could be treated as a trial.” She’s still for a beat, though it’s just a prelude for the probing in store. “What happened to your stance on marriage? If I remember correctly, none of this was of concern to you when you assumed the seat because it was something you’d never entertain.”
Trials are the tests that the chairs—and occasionally other high-level positions—undergo before assuming their status in KORT. Generally, everyone else endures a loyalty test, which is supposedly lighter than a trial.
When I accepted the seat, I did so with conditions. My brothers and staff were grandfathered in. There was no need for loyalty testing since I vouched for them. Even new employees—like Zara—are exempt, provided the business shared does not delve into KORT affairs. Ivy and Wells questioned how I felt about a potential spouse being tested, and I was adamant that it would never apply to me.
A subdued grunt slips out, but I am far too weary to contain it. “Based on what you’re telling me, that might still be the case.”
“No,” Ivy chirps with that sweet saintliness previously mentioned. “Don’t do that. If you’ve found someone who you’re even willing to consider sharing your life with, who could helpyou carry … all that you carry, that’s worth it, Axel.” Another laden pause, ripe with a spearing query. “Is it someone who might be an employee of yours?”
“What do you know?”
“Just that there was some commotion on Friday night. The woman in question …” She lets that dangle, leaving me to fill in the gossip she won’t lay credence to without my confirmation.
It’s my turn to probe, my chance to garner what I called for. “Let’s say it was.”
“Okay.” She hums, and her diplomatic musing of how to guide me thrums like a drum before battle. “In that case, do not be seen together until you issue the claim because the tests are always worse if deceit is detected. She’ll pay the price for sneaking around, so in turn, you will too. And suspicion already surrounds you.”
“Understood.” I pour myself a mere finger’s worth of scotch from the plane’s office bar, not willing to risk a lack of sharpness for my venture. “If I were to take temporary measures to issue an order of protection—because she’s found herself in a bind—before I claim her, how long would it provide me?”
“Maybe ten days,” she estimates before she repeats the stringent reality I’m all too aware of. “More than ten days won’t look good, and there is no leeway with being seen together. Even a one-night stand with someone you’re employing, plus enacting an order of protection for, would be frowned upon. I know it’s unreasonable. But this is the cost.”
She’s worth it. Priceless.
I don’t share that though. It’s dangerous. If I speak it, even within the margins of confidence, my longing for Zara will become an insatiable beast, and all choice on her part will rot.
I wish I could ascertain from Ivy’s responses whether Zara was working for KORT, but it’s entirely possible that she doesn’tknow, or perhaps her encouragement is because she does, so she’s rooting for us and simply doesn’t want me to blow it.
“And, Axel?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t prepare her—in the sense of warning her that she’ll be tested. They’ll know, and it will only make her look guilty.” Ivy, who intuits more than most and empathizes to the depth of her marrow, sounds almost pained at her conclusion. “If you don’t trust hercompletely, it’s best to let her go.”
I bid her my thanks and appreciative goodbye before ending the call and staring at the clouds engulfing us.
I’ve never felt so lost.
My brothers and I enjoy dinner and review the details of our errand. The skies are violet now, and we’re buckled in for our descent with our weaponry prepped. Like they often do, they poke at me with the maturity of unruly teenagers, though it’s bracketed with the unwavering devotion of men who would lay down their lives for me.
Before I can let their lighthearted barbs soothe the deluge of turmoil plaguing me, my phone vibrates with an encrypted call.
“Yeah?” I clip.
“I apologize for the interruption, but there are updates that can’t wait,” Bernard informs without a greeting. “We had a security breach in the way of a listening device. It was detected on the sweep, of course.”
We have a sweeping team, dedicated to scouring the entire resort—aside from guest rooms—for bugs several times a day.
“And a death,” Bernard tacks on before I can ask more about the security issue.
“A death?” I repeat, and this has all four of my brothers freezing with interest.
“Shepherd Lange,” he supplies. “What appears to be a heart attack.”
The cause of death is more perplexing than the name. Shep was healthy, buff, and in his mid-thirties. Leave it to a guy who kills the most ruthless to die from natural causes, as if he were giving a middle finger to anyone who had him on a hit list.
