I hold her close, breathing in the scent of her citrus perfume mixed with the heavier musk of sex and satisfaction. Mine. The word echoes through my head again, but it's softer now, less desperate. She agreed. She's moving in. She'smine.
And I'm completely, irrevocably hers.
Six MonthsLater
The backstage area of the Horde Tech Global Summit is controlled chaos, but I can still pick out Romee's voiceimmediately through the din of setup crew and AV techs and stressed catering staff.
"No, we discussed this three times in the planning meetings. The investor presentation goes on themainstage, not the breakout room. I don't care if someone moved the furniture around, move it back."
I lean against the wall near the stage entrance, watching her command the space with the same terrifying efficiency she brought to that disastrous wellness retreat. She's wearing a sharp grey suit that I know for a fact cost more than most people's monthly rent, her hair pulled into a flawless chignon that somehow makes her look both devastatingly professional and like I want to mess it up immediately.
Which I will. Later. After the summit.
CHAPTER 15
ROMEE
Iadjust my earpiece for the third time in as many minutes, mentally running through the timing of the afternoon sessions. The ballroom is immaculate, the lighting is perfect, the catering staff knows exactly when to circulate with the hors d'oeuvres, and the AV crew has triple-checked every connection. Everything is running like a precisely calibrated machine, which means I'm waiting for something to inevitably go wrong.
"Ms. Lin?" One of the massive Orcs from the setup crew approaches cautiously, holding a tablet. He's at least six-foot-six and built like he could bench-press a sedan, but he still looks vaguely nervous addressing me. "The green room is ready for Mr. Orkenshade's pre-keynote prep. Do you want to do a final walk-through?"
"Already did it twenty minutes ago, Arga. But thank you." I glance at my own tablet, scrolling through the schedule with practiced efficiency. "Make sure the backup mic pack is charged and within arm's reach. Thrall has a tendency to gesture emphatically during Q&A sessions, and the last thing we need is a dead battery mid-answer."
"Yes, ma'am." He nods respectfully and retreats, and I catch the small, satisfied smile that crosses his face as he goes.
It still catches me off guard sometimes, the way Thrall's entire executive team treats me with this blend of professional respect and something deeper, more instinctual. Like I'm not just the event planner they hired, but someone whose authority carries actual weight in their world. It's intoxicating and terrifying in equal measure, and I have to constantly remind myself not to let it go to my head.
My phone buzzes. A text from Thrall.
Stop micromanaging. Everything is perfect. You're perfect. Come find me before I go on.
I bite back a smile, glancing toward the stage entrance where I know he's lurking in the wings, probably watching me with that intense, predatory focus that still makes my stomach flip even after six months of living together.
I'm working. You have a keynote in fifteen minutes. Focus.
I am focused. On you. Backstage. Now.
I exhale slowly, closing my eyes and counting to three before responding.
Five minutes. I need to check the teleprompter sync one more time.
Four minutes. I'm timing you.
Impossible man. Impossible, overbearing, absurdly devoted Orc who somehow convinced me to move into his ridiculously oversized penthouse and let him reorganize his entire home office to accommodate my desk. Which, naturally, he positioned directly across from his so he could "appreciate the view" while working.
The view being me. Obviously.
I signal to my assistant coordinator, a sharp young woman named Kiera who I poached from a competitor three months ago, and she immediately steps up beside me.
"I'm doing a final check with the client," I tell her, handing over my tablet. "You have the floor. Investor presentationsstart in forty-five minutes. If anything goes sideways with the breakout sessions, text me immediately."
"Got it." She takes the tablet with the kind of calm confidence I recognize in myself, and I feel a small surge of pride. I built this. My company, my team, my standards.
And Thrall gave me the foundation to do it without ever once trying to control how I ran things.
I weave through the backstage area, nodding at various crew members and adjusting one slightly crooked banner as I pass. The controlled chaos backstage is always my favorite part of these events—the moment right before everything goes live, when all the pieces are in place and the energy is crackling with anticipation.
I find Thrall exactly where I expected him: leaning against the wall near the stage entrance, arms crossed over his chest, watching the ballroom with that same calculating intensity he brings to board meetings. He's wearing a custom-tailored black suit that probably cost more than my first car, the fabric straining slightly across his shoulders in a way that's both professional and utterly distracting.
