Chapter 40 Us Against the Narrative
Sloane’s POV
By the third time the federal seal flashed on my screen that week, my stomach stopped pretending it was just indigestion and went straight to dread.
“This is a secure line,” the liaison’s assistant said. “Connecting you now.”
The video window split into three. Me in my office, Eli in a small Ward conference room, jaw already tight, and a stern faced woman from the contract office whose title ran three lines long under her name.
“Ms Mercer. Mr Ward.” Her voice was clipped, almost bored. I knew that tone. People who dealt in power all day, every day, and were tired of hearing excuses.
“Thank you for making time,” I said. My voice sounded calm. That was something.
“We have several questions arising from recent events,” she began. “Specifically, your public acknowledgment of a personal relationship between executive leadership and security staff while a national security contract is under consideration.”
There it was. No finessing, no euphemism. At least she was efficient.
“First,” she continued, “Mr Ward. Did you at any time have access to classified components of the proposed contract beyond your remit as a private security provider.”
Eli’s shoulders squared. “No,” he said. “My role has been limited to physical threat assessments and advisory input on implementation risks. I have not had direct access to classified network schematics, key management materials, or government only threat intel.”
Her gaze slid to me. “Ms Mercer, can you confirm the segregation of duties.”
“Yes,” I said. “Classified components are handled in a separate enclave. Different staff, different devices, different rooms. Eli’s access has been strictly compartmentalized. He could not compromise what he has never seen.”
She did not blink. “And your personal engagement with him. Do you acknowledge that it may create vulnerabilities. For example, pressure to override protocols, or an increased likelihood of information leakage during informal conversations.”
It was such a clinical way to say you might have pillow talk about nukes.
“My trust in my security personnel is a strength, not a weakness,” I said, keeping my tone even. “That said, I am aware of the risk. That is why we have structural safeguards. I do not discuss classified material outside appropriate channels. Not with Mr Ward. Not with anyone. My feelings do not change the architecture.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw something flicker across Eli’s face. Guilt. Pride. Both.
The liaison made another note. “The committee will take this under advisement,” she said. “You should be aware that, in light of these governance concerns, Mercer’s suitability for the contract is under review.”
Code for: we might punish your heart with a billion dollar decision.
“Understood,” I said, because what else was there.
The call ended with the usual bureaucratic pleasantries. Screens blinked out one by one. My inbox chimed almost immediately. Official notice from the contract awarding committee. We will be reviewing all bids in light of recent developments in executive governance. Thank you for your understanding.
I wanted to throw the laptop through the window.
Inside Mercer, the wave hit fast. Some board members took the news as confirmation of their favorite plan.
“A temporary step aside might reassure them,” Richard said in a smaller meeting. “An interim executive. You would still be founder. Symbolic head. Just… not the one on the form.”
Others were less eager to grab a crown from my head.
“Forcing her out now could spook markets far more,” another director said. “It will look like desperation.”
They talked like I was not in the room. Again.
I listened. I did not agree. Not yet.
Then, something unexpected slid into my private inbox. Not board, not investors. An internal letter, unsigned, but the names were all there at the bottom.
Ava. Three senior engineers. My head of threat intel. A handful of people who had lived in glass rooms with me at three in the morning.
We support your continued leadership, it said. Your decisions and your transparency have earned our trust, not shaken it. We choose to stay at Mercer because of you, not in spite of you.
My throat went tight. I read it twice, then a third time, eyes blurring. The cursor blinked stupidly at the bottom, like the system was asking if I wanted to edit my own people.
Outside our firewall, the verdict was messier.
Some commentators called me irresponsible. Selfish. A cautionary tale. Others, especially the ones whose job titles did not include words like senior and vice, called me something else. A woman who refused to be shamed for loving someone while running an empire.
“She is reckless.”
“She is brave.”
“They are hot.”
“Fire her.”
All of it scrolled past like static.
By the end of the week, my nerves felt sanded raw. When I texted Eli, Rooftop, ten, my hands were still shaking.
The roof of Mercer had seen too much. Tonight the air was cool, sky clear, city stretched in every direction like a neural net lit and humming. I wrapped my coat tighter around me and waited by the edge.
He came through the access door a minute later, shoulders filling the frame, tie gone, top buttons undone.
“You are supposed to be home,” he said. “Sleeping.”
“I tried,” I said. “My brain refused.”
We stood side by side at the railing. For a moment we just looked.
“What does winning even mean to you now,” I asked quietly. “Is it keeping the contract. Keeping this title. Staying alive. Staying with me.”
He was silent for a beat. “All of the above would be nice,” he said. “But if I have to pick. Staying alive and staying with you. We can build work back from there. Titles and contracts are paper. You are not.”
I laughed, a short broken sound. “I built an entire life to prove I could stand alone,” I said. “Hours and dollars and blood. It is… ironic that the biggest fight of my life is one I cannot win without you.”
He turned to look at me, really look, city light catching on the scar by his jaw. “You have always been able to win without me,” he said. “That is not why I am here. I am here because you do not have to.”
Something in me that had been holding on by fingernails let go.
“No more half measures,” I said. “No more pretending to be nothing in public so some regulator will feel less twitchy. We fight smart, but we stop apologizing for existing.”
He nodded once. “Agreed. We pick our battles. But we pick them together.”
I lifted my hand, very slowly, like I was testing gravity. Then I laced my fingers through his openly, in the middle of my own roof, with any number of cameras possibly pointed our way.
The world did not explode. The sky did not fall. His fingers just tightened around mine, warm and sure.
“For the record,” he murmured, “I have never thought standing next to you was something we needed to apologize for.”
I looked at our hands, at the city, at the glass tower that had been my whole world for so long.
“If they are going to judge me,” I said, my voice steady for the first time that day, “they should at least know who they are judging. It is time to tell the truth about how we got here.”
He squeezed my hand. “Berlin,” he said softly.
“Berlin,” I agreed.
And for once, the thought of opening that door all the way did not make me want to run.