Page 12 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“On it,” said Merlin. “And Arthur? Get some sleep. You sound like your father.”

The call disconnected before I could respond, which was definitely intentional.

Lance laughed and nudged me. “He’s not wrong.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying, you do that thing where you start giving orders in bullet points.”

“That’s called leadership.”

“That’s called your dad.” Lance knew my family better than the rest of them. He and I had been inseparable since we were fourteen and roommates in boarding school. The nepo baby and the scholarship kid—Lance had been my brother in all but blood ever since then. After I learned what was waiting for him at home and realized my father was easier to deal with when Lance was in the room, he’d joined me for almost every long weekend and holiday until we finished BUD/S.

And he knew comparing me to my father wasn’t a compliment.

I drove. What else was there to do?

Lance went back to his phone, probably drafting his PR notice, given how fast his thumbs were moving across the screen. It no doubt contained far more colorful language than the final version would.

But honestly? We had used Pendragon operators. My father had made calls. The jet did have his name on the registration. Every clean win we’d had, every case where we’d done the job on our own merits, could be reframed as something that only existed because he put us in a position to exist in the first place.

Pendragon’s crisis communications team was good. They’d handled far worse. They’d have a counter-narrative drafted before lunch and placed in the right outlets before the end of the week.

But the article had said RTS couldn’t function without Pendragon. And my first fucking response to reading it had been to call my father’s team.

If I made that call, the article was right. If I didn’t, I was handicapping my own company out of pride. I could hear my father’s voice, full of confidence, the way it always sounded when he was explaining something he considered obvious: ‘If our money can’t make things easier, what have I been working for?’

What, indeed, Dad?

Chapter 5

Gwen

The hallway carpet muffled my footsteps. I was still smiling. I couldn’t help it. The wine had been perfect, the food had been incredible, and the company had included… Oh my god, it had included a man in a beige sweater with a deep voice who knew Latin.

Latin. Other than academics, who knows Latin?

A single word of Latin, Gwen.

But still. A humble man with broad shoulders who knew a word of Latin and Italian wineries.

I tapped the keycard on the lock and pushed the door open with a sigh.

And stopped.

The bathroom light was on.

I hadn’t left the light on. I’d been rushing to get ready for dinner, but I always turned off lights when I left a room. Always.

Maybe?

None of the other lights were on. Maybe I’d forgotten one—I had been in a hurry when I’d left. I flicked on the overhead light, holding the door open, and scanned the hotel room. My papers were all over the place, my running shoes sat by the door, and⁠—

My stomach rose into my throat.

My laptop wasn’t on the desk. It was gone. The rest of the desk looked the same. But the laptop was gone, the bathroom light was on, and I couldn’t let go of the door handle.

Leave, Gwen. Turn around, go down to the front desk, and call security.