Chapter 38 The Stand We Take
Sloane’s POV
By the time Mariah put the first slide up, my teeth already hurt from clenching.
“Preliminary findings,” she said, voice warm, eyes sharp. The big screen behind her filled with neat bullet points and blurred faces. “We have identified blurred lines between executive leadership and contracted security staff. These pose a risk to company reputation and to the viability of our federal contract.”
She did not say my name. She did not say Eli’s. She did not need to. The room knew.
Full board. Key investors in from other cities, their faces on screens or sitting in leather chairs. Every one of them had read the gossip pieces. Every one of them pretended, for now, that we were talking about guidelines.
Mariah clicked. A still from the hallway footage came up. Cropped tight so all you saw was his hand on my arm and the suggestion of my body caught mid turn. No alarm lights. No fire doors closing. Just ambiguity.
Another click. The all hands incident, zoomed so the attacker was a smear, my hand on Eli’s shoulder as he held someone down. No smoke. No stampede. Just a frame that could be read a dozen wrong ways.
“While context exists,” Mariah said smoothly, “public audiences lack that nuance. The potential for misinterpretation is significant.”
Misinterpretation. I stared at the frozen image of his fingers on my wrist. There was nothing accidental about the way those clips had been cut. We all knew it. We were just pretending otherwise so no one had to say the real word. Threat.
“For the protection of the company and Ms Mercer,” she went on, and that was the one that made something in me crack, “we recommend decisive action. Termination of Ward’s contract or, at minimum, full removal of Mr Ward from any role related to Mercer. Engagement of Sentinel Gate as primary security vendor. And a clear public statement affirming our zero tolerance for impropriety.”
Zero tolerance. Protection. I could feel the room closing around those phrases like a fist.
Richard was nodding. A couple of investor reps were already jotting notes, probably drafting emails to their committees. One of them, a man from a large fund who had never once looked me in the eye unless there were cameras, raised his hand.
“To be clear,” he said, “the optics of maintaining a relationship with your head of security while under federal review are untenable. We cannot be seen tolerating that kind of conflict.”
They were talking about my life like it was a misbehaving stock.
Something inside me went very calm.
I pushed my chair back and stood. The sound of the legs scraping the floor cut through Mariah’s next sentence. Heads turned. A couple of people actually flinched.
“Let us stop pretending this is about impropriety,” I said. “And say what you are all whispering.”
Silence fell like a dropped curtain.
“You are not worried about blurred lines,” I went on. “You are worried that I might be a victim you can control or a problem you have to remove. You are worried about the story, not the facts.”
Mariah’s eyes widened a fraction. “Sloane, perhaps we should handle this in a smaller setting.”
“No,” I said. The word rang. “We are going to do something radical and put the truth on the table.”
My heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my throat. I swallowed it down.
“Eli has not coerced me,” I said, clearly. “At any point. Any feelings between us are mutual and fully consensual. What you have seen on your little slides are moments where he did his job. He pulled me out of danger. He stopped an attack. The fact that we also happen to want each other does not turn those actions into crimes.”
Gasps. A muffled oh my God. Someone’s pen clattered to the table.
I heard myself keep talking.
“If you are going to punish him for caring about my life,” I said, “you are going to do it with the truth on the record. Not as some vague ethics concern you can wave at regulators. I care about him. Too.”
That was the part that felt like stepping off a roof without checking if there was a net.
Mariah’s mask slipped, just a hair. She had not expected me to own it. She had expected me to squirm, to deny, to let her shape this into a lesson in discipline.
“You are admitting a relationship with your head of security while we are under federal review,” the investor from the fund said, incredulous.
“I am admitting,” I shot back, “that I trust the man who has caught me every time someone tried to kill me more than I trust the people who keep inviting my enemies into my house.”
Chairs shifted. Some faces went red with anger. Others were very, very still.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Diaz. A single line on the lock screen. Major DDoS hitting public portals and two top clients. Looks coordinated.
Of course they would choose this moment, with my board trying to decide which leash to use on me, to hit the front of the building.
I looked around at the table. At the people who thought they could decide how safe I was allowed to be.
“We are done here for now,” I said. “Our external facing services are under attack. It is time to do my actual job.”
“Sloane, we have not finished discussing Ward’s status,” Richard protested.
“I will discuss my love life after I have defended the systems that keep this company alive,” I said. “Mila, activate crisis protocols. Full technical lockdown. Get our people in the war room, now.”
I was already moving, chair askew behind me. There was noise around me, objections, someone saying this is highly inappropriate, but it all blurred.
Outside the boardroom, the hallway felt cooler. Eli stood there, shoulders a line of tension, Jace a few feet away pretending to read his phone.
His gaze found my face. He read the room in my expression before I even spoke.
“They know now,” I said quietly, stopping right in front of him. “About us. Because I told them.”
Shock flickered across his features, then something like fear, then something I did not have time to name. His throat worked.
“Sloane,” he breathed.
“No time,” I said, even though I wanted to stand there and let the moment land properly. “We are under attack. War room.”
We moved together, feet hitting the stairs in sync. By the time we hit the operations floor, screens were already blooming with red, graphs spiking.
My phone buzzed again as we pushed into the glass perimeter of the war room.
Unknown number this time.
Brave. Stupid. Now I get to watch you both fall in HD.
A photo loaded beneath the text. Crystal clear, high angle, rooftop night. My hands fisted in his coat. His palm on my jaw. Our mouths together.
They had not just heard my confession.
They had been waiting for it with the camera already rolling.