Chapter 12 Fire in the Boardroom
The hum of the jet's engines was the only sound between us.
Damian sat across the aisle, sleeves rolled up, laptop open, a dozen files glowing on the screen. I tried to focus on my own notes, but my eyes kept drifting to him - the man who looked like he could command storms and never flinch.
We'd taken off barely an hour ago, but the silence was heavier than turbulence. I wanted to speak - to ask how we'd fight back - but the look on his face made me pause.
He wasn't just calculating; he was angry. Controlled, simmering anger.
"Stop staring," he said without looking up.
"I wasn't," I lied.
"You were." His lips twitched. "If you have something to say, say it."
I leaned back against the seat. "You've already made your plan, haven't you? You didn't even ask what I think."
He shut the laptop slowly and looked at me. "You think we can fix this with a press release. I think we fix it by bleeding the man who started it dry."
"You mean Lang."
"I mean anyone who stands between us and control."
I let out a sharp laugh. "Control. That's all it is for you, isn't it?"
His eyes darkened. "Control is survival in my world. You of all people should understand that by now."
"Maybe I don't want to live in your world," I shot back.
He held my gaze for a long moment, then said quietly, "You already do."
The plane hit a small pocket of turbulence, the lights flickering once. I gripped the armrest harder than I meant to. Damian's hand closed gently over mine.
"Relax," he murmured. "It's just air."
"Easy for you to say."
His thumb brushed my knuckles before he pulled back. The touch lingered like heat.
I hated that it calmed me.
The rest of the flight passed in taut silence. When we landed in London, the air outside was sharp and gray, the kind of cold that felt like punishment.
A black car waited on the tarmac, the driver opening the door before Damian could even reach for the handle.
We slid inside, and as the city rolled past - glass towers, rain-slick streets, blurred lights - I realized how exhausted I was.
But exhaustion didn't matter now. Not when everything I'd built was hanging by a thread.
"The hearing starts in two hours," Damian said. "They'll question the merger, the contracts, and your ethics. Lang's allies will try to push a suspension of GreenSphere's trading license."
My pulse spiked. "They can't do that."
"They can," he said, "if you lose your temper."
"I'm not going to lose my temper."
He gave a small, knowing smile. "You already are."
I turned to the window, clenching my jaw. "Why does it feel like I'm always performing around you?"
"Because you are," he said softly. "And because it's safer that way."
Before I could respond, the car stopped in front of the sleek glass façade of The Armitage Building, home to the London Financial Regulatory Board. Reporters swarmed the entrance like vultures, flashes sparking through the drizzle.
"Stay close," Damian said.
"Are you protecting me or controlling me?" I muttered.
He smiled faintly. "Both."
We stepped out, and the world erupted - cameras, voices, questions.
"Elena, did you falsify the merger reports?"
"Mr. Cross, did you finance GreenSphere under false pretenses?"
"Are the two of you romantically involved?"
That last one made me stop cold. The cameras caught it - my shock, his steady hand on my back, the way he leaned close as if to whisper reassurance.
"Keep walking," he said lowly, and somehow I did.
Inside, the air was sterile and cold. We were ushered to a waiting room lined with frosted glass and silver chairs. Damian's legal team was already there - a woman named Claudia in a gray suit and two men who looked like they hadn't smiled since 2005.
Claudia stood as we entered. "They've added a witness last minute - Marcus Hale."
My heart stuttered. "He's here?"
She nodded grimly. "He's claiming he has proof you altered financial statements before the merger."
"That's a lie."
Damian's voice was quiet, but it carried authority. "We'll expose him."
"How?" I asked, almost whispering.
He didn't answer right away. Then, softly, "By letting him speak first."
The hearing room was colder than the hallway. Rows of officials sat behind a long curved table, digital screens glowing in front of them. Lang was there too, sitting beside Marcus, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass.
Damian placed a hand at the small of my back as we took our seats. I didn't shrug him off. I needed the grounding more than I wanted to admit.
The chairwoman began. "We're here to investigate the merger between GreenSphere Energy and Cross Global Capital, and the allegations of fraudulent financial reporting. Ms. Grant, you'll have the opportunity to respond after Mr. Hale's statement."
Marcus stood, all calm arrogance. The same man who used to bring me coffee at 2 A.M. while we reviewed reports was now feeding me to wolves.
He spoke smoothly, rehearsed. "Ms. Grant instructed me to adjust valuation numbers to attract Cross Global's investment. She authorized concealed funds to facilitate the merger."
Every word was a lie.
And yet, every word sounded true because he'd once stood beside me, because he knew my tone, my phrasing, my weaknesses.
When he finished, the room buzzed with whispers. I felt my pulse in my throat.
The chairwoman turned to me. "Ms. Grant, your response?"
I rose slowly. "Yes," I said. "I have one."
My voice didn't shake - not because I wasn't scared, but because I was furious.
"I built GreenSphere with my own hands, from a one-room office and a single investor who believed in renewable energy before it was profitable. Marcus Hale was one of my employees. He also stole data, violated nondisclosure agreements, and sold access to our internal files. I have proof."
Claudia handed a folder across the table. Inside were screenshots, emails - Damian's people had worked fast. Marcus's smirk faltered.
"This," I continued, "is the man accusing me of fraud. The same man who tried to sell company secrets to our competitors for personal gain."
Lang shifted uncomfortably. Damian watched him like a hawk.
"GreenSphere's numbers are real. Our innovation is real. What's false are the stories people tell when they want to destroy something they couldn't build themselves."
I sat. The silence that followed was so thick you could taste it.
The chairwoman looked between the documents and the men across the table. "We'll review this immediately."
Lang leaned toward Marcus, whispering furiously. The color had drained from his face.
Damian's hand brushed mine under the table - subtle, unseen. A silent you did it.
The hearing adjourned an hour later. Outside, the reporters were waiting again, but this time, Damian didn't hurry me past them.
One of them shouted, "Ms. Grant, any comment?"
I met the camera lenses head-on. "Truth doesn't need a press release. It just needs time to surface."
Then I turned and walked toward the car, heels clicking against the wet pavement.
Inside, Damian was already there, watching me with something that wasn't quite pride, but close.
"You handled that perfectly," he said.
I exhaled, tension finally breaking. "I didn't think I could."
"You didn't think," he corrected. "You did."
Our eyes met, and for a moment, the world outside vanished - the rain, the cameras, the noise. Just him and me in the dim backseat of a car, too close, too charged.
"Damian," I began, but he reached over, brushing a raindrop from my cheek that wasn't really rain.
"You're safe," he murmured. "For now."
But something in his tone told me safety was temporary. That another storm was already brewing - one neither of us could see yet.
As the car pulled away, I turned to the window. London's skyline shimmered like wet glass, and I wondered which would break first - the city, the company, or me.