"You think I'm scared of you?" he sneers, leaning in closer. "You think?—"
"Enough," George's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. "This isn't helping anyone. We're supposed to be family. Brothers and sisters. Act like it."
Johnson backs down first, stepping away with his hands raised in mock surrender. "Just saying what everyone's thinking. What everyone's too scared to say out loud."
"Then let me make this clear," I say, turning to address the entire room, projecting my voice to reach every corner. "Xavier is recovering. Yes, he was seriously injured. Yes, he's working through mobility issues. But he's still your president. He's still in charge. He's still the man who built this club from nothing. And anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with him directly."
"When?" Cassandra challenges, arms crossed. "When can we take it up with him? Because we can't visit him at the hospital. Can't call him. Can't see him. Can't confirm he even exists anymore. For all we know, you're making all this up and he's actually dead or in a vegetative state somewhere."
"He's alive," Zay interrupts coldly. "He's conscious. He's recovering. That's all you need to know right now."
"That's not enough," George says quietly, but his voice carries. "The club deserves transparency. The club deserves to see their president. To evaluate his condition. To know he's actually capable of leading. This isn't a dictatorship where you three make all the decisions behind closed doors. This is supposed to be a brotherhood. We deserve the truth."
He's right. I hate that he's right but he absolutely is. We've been hiding Xavier like he's something shameful. Protecting him but also isolating him from the very people he's supposed to lead.
"We'll arrange something," I say, making the decision in the moment without consulting anyone.
"When?" George presses, not letting me off the hook.
"Soon."
"That's vague. That's meaningless. Give us a date."
"That's what you're getting right now."
George studies me for a long moment, those calculating eyes reading me the same way Asher does. Then he nods slowly, deliberately. "Okay. But if Xavier doesn't show his face in the next week, we're calling a vote of no confidence. Official. By the books."
"You can't—" Zay starts, voice rising.
"We can," George interrupts smoothly. "Check the bylaws, Article Seven, Section Three. If the president is incapacitated and unable to perform his duties for more than thirty days, the club can vote on interim leadership until he recovers or is permanently replaced. We've been patient. We've given him time. We've waited and trusted. But we need leadership. Real leadership. Not this shadow government you three have been running."
I look around the room. See the agreement on too many faces. See the doubt, the fear, the anger at being kept in the dark and treated like children who can't handle the truth.
"One week," I say, committing us before I can second-guess it. "Xavier will address the club in one week. In person. Here. Noon."
"You can promise that?" Johnson asks skeptically, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"I can." I have absolutely no idea if Xavier will actually agree to this but I'm committing us anyway, because what other choice do I have? "One week. He'll show up. He'll prove he's still capable of leading. He'll answer your questions. And then you all can decide if you want to follow him or stage your little coup and see how that works out for you."
"Fair enough," George says. He looks at Johnson, then around the room. "One week. We can wait one week. That's reasonable."
Johnson doesn't look happy but he nods curtly.
The tension in the room doesn't dissipate exactly, but it shifts. Becomes something more manageable, something we can survive.
Zay touches my elbow gently. "We should go."
He's right. We've accomplished what we came for—shown my face, reminded them I exist, bought us time. Staying longer risks another confrontation, more questions we can't answer.
"One week," I repeat, looking at George, at Johnson, at Cassandra, at all of them. Making eye contact. Making this a promise. "Be here. Noon. And you'll get your answers. All of them."
We turn and walk out. I can feel their eyes on my back all the way to the door—hot, suspicious, judging. Can feel the weight of the promise I just made.
Once we're outside, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"That went well," Zay says dryly, sarcasm heavy.
"Could've been worse."
