Page 44 of Mister St. James

“Or mine,” I finish.

He flinches. I reach for the phone, and this time, he lets me take it.

I flip it over, wake the screen, and scroll through the email chain. The subject lines escalate from “Urgent: Emergency Session” to “Re: Leaked Materials, Board Response Required.” There’s a new message every few minutes, each one clipped, legal, impersonal.

I hand the phone back. He takes it, but his thumb hovers over the screen, and I watch him read the same line twice.

I reach over and press it face-down on the nightstand.

He looks at me.

I kiss his jaw, the hinge of it where tension lives, then the side of his neck, slow enough that I feel his pulse stutter and reset. His arm comes around me, and this time the muscles loosen, just slightly, just enough. I tuck myself against him, my head on his chest, his chin resting on my hair.

The city bleeds through the glass. Neither of us speaks for a long time.

Finally I say, “Whatever it costs tomorrow, we pay it together. That’s the only number that matters.”

He exhales, long and unsteady, and pulls me closer. Outside, the city keeps its indifferent hum. But in here, the math is simple.

I wake up before the alarm, sweat-damp and braced for impact. There’s no reason to move, Aiden’s body is an iron band at my back, the sheets twisted around our legs, the air pressed flat and heavy by the things neither of us dared say last night. I stare at the ceiling, counting the seconds until the sky is more indigo than black, until the edge of the day filters through the glass.

He stirs behind me, pulls me closer, his arm tightening like he’s already bracing for the day. His voice is rough with sleep. “What time is it?”

I check the clock. “Six-twelve.”

He exhales, long and slow. Neither of us move.

Chapter twenty

Corporate Politics

Aiden

The boardroom is set for a bloodletting. Every time I walk into this space, twenty floors up, two layers of glass between the city and my business’s softest guts, I expect to find evidence of a struggle. I get it in the subtle things, a coffee ring on the table, the off-angle tilt of a director’s chair, the blue glow of a phone screen stashed under the table’s edge. But today the tension is overt and physical, like there’s been a change in gravity overnight and everyone’s bones have recalibrated.

I make a point of entering before the rest of them have settled. It’s performative, but I’ve never pretended to be above that kind of thing. My suit’s the same as always, charcoal, narrow lapels, the shirt white and crisp at the cuffs. The portfolio under my arm is genuine leather, not because I give a shit about status but because it is silent when I drop it onto the conference table. But the stack of manila folders is heavier than it looks.

Eight directors today, each with their coffee and curated expressions. Hargrove, who has served on more boards than I’ve spent years alive, and who radiates a patrician contempt that would be impressive if it weren’t so transparent. Tran and McKinley, flanking him, each with their own axis of authority. Tran’s the analytics guy, ruthless with numbers, while McKinley plays at being the company’s conscience but always folds when the money gets loud. The other five are all variations on the theme, business-casual, expensive watches, the aura of people who have never had to ask permission.

I don’t sit. Instead, I drop the folders at the head of the table and wait for the last of them to finish their email check and pretend to notice me.

“We’re not going to waste time,” I say. My voice is the same one I use when negotiating with government contractors or hostile vendors. “I know why you’re all here. There’s been a compromise of PDI’s executive security. You’re concerned about reputational risk, legal exposure, and…” I glance at McKinley, “potential impacts on shareholder value.”

This gets the barest twitch from Hargrove, which is how I know I’ve got their undivided attention.

“What you may not know,” I continue, “is that the security breach has already been contained. The party responsible is in custody. Law enforcement has the evidence. There will be no further leaks. I’m here to brief you, answer your questions, and clarify next steps. But let’s make something clear, I built this company, and I retain majority control. Your role is to advise, not to direct.”

Hargrove’s jaw works side to side, like he’s chewing a piece of gristle. But he waits. I take the top folder and open it up to reveal a stack of paper NDAs so thick it could splint a broken leg, blue tabs for signatures, red tabs for initials, and slide them, one at a time, down the length of the table. The noise they make, a whisper of friction against the polished surface, is the only sound in the room for a good twenty seconds.

“Non-disclosure agreements,” I say. “You’ll sign them before we move forward. If you’re not comfortable, you’re free to step out and forfeit your board seat. That’s the only offer you’re getting.”

Tran picks up his copy, flips to the signature page, and starts reading the fine print. “Rather heavy-handed, isn’t it, Aiden? We’re your board, not a group of loose-lipped interns.”

Hargrove stares at the cover sheet like it’s a challenge to his authority.

McKinley’s hand shakes just enough to spill a drop of coffee into his lap.

“Is this really necessary?” Hargrove finally says, voice like cold salt.