I position myself slightly to Tyrok’s side, close enough to enter the conversation without interrupting it, far enough that the focus stays where it belongs unless I choose to shift it.
“You’re holding too still,” I murmur under my breath.
“I’m not moving,” he replies.
“You’re not deciding,” I say quietly. “There’s a difference.”
His jaw shifts slightly, and then his posture adjusts just enough to change the tone of it, no longer passive.
“That’s better,” I say.
“You’re getting comfortable,” he mutters.
“You’re letting me,” I reply.
That earns a flicker of something in his expression, gone almost as soon as it appears.
The doors open, and the target steps in with two attendants, his composure intact, his movements measured, but his eyes move first, scanning, calculating, assessing every detail of the room before he commits to anything else.
He’s already negotiating.
“Baronet,” Tyrok says, his voice steady, carrying without effort.
“Tyrok,” the man replies, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge without conceding.
They sit.
I remain standing.
“You’ve delayed payment,” Tyrok says.
“We’ve adjusted timing,” the Baronet replies, his tone smooth, practiced.
“There’s no adjustment clause,” Tyrok says.
“There is in practice,” the Baronet counters.
I step forward just enough to shift the dynamic without breaking it.
“And what practice is that,” I ask.
The Baronet’s gaze flicks to me, then back to Tyrok.
“Is she speaking for you,” he asks.
“No,” Tyrok says.
“Yes,” I say at the same time.
The tension in the room tightens, subtle but immediate.
Tyrok doesn’t look at me.
Good.
“Answer the question,” I say.
The Baronet studies me now, recalibrating, adjusting his expectations in real time.
