He’s tense.
Not visibly. Not to them. But I see it in the way his hand curls too tightly around his fork.
“Glad to see you’re recovering,” Hale says, glancing pointedly at Rowan’s plate. “Though we were surprised by your absence this morning at breakfast.”
“We needed a slower start,” Rowan replies, voice even but clipped.
“Understandable,” Harris says, folding his hands. “Retreats can be… overstimulating.”
Masden leans forward, just enough to make me stiffen. “Especially when you’re bringing interesting guests.”
Rowan doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t have to.
The silence tightens like a noose.
My grip on my fork slips slightly. The back of my neck prickles. A beat passes. Then another. My stomach begins its slow, familiar twist—the one that says run before you understand why.
“I think what we’re all wondering,” Harris says, too casually, “is what prompted the choice to bring someone who—how shall we say it—has a history of disregarding discretion.”
My breath stutters in my chest. My spine stiffens. Did someone hear something? Did they see my name on a file? But it’s not the present they’re referencing. It’s the past. My past.
Rowan’s head lifts.
“Excuse me?”
Masden folds his napkin like he’s moderating a panel, not accusing someone of career-ending misconduct. “We did some digging, King. Not much—just enough to be informed. After all, when someone isn’t on the recruitment list but still attends every event, it raises questions.”
“She’s here with me,” Rowan says, like a warning shot across the table.
“Yes, well.” Harris’s smile is tight. “That’s precisely the concern.”
Confusion floods in, hot and fast. I blink, trying to track the conversation, but the undercurrent is turning slippery. What the hell is happening? How do they know about the notes?
Then Harris—damn him—tilts his head with mock concern. “Camden brought it to our attention, actually. Last night. After your departure.”
Masden takes over, tag-team style. “He said maybe your personal relationship was interfering with professional judgment. Suggested we take a second look at your guest. For your protection, of course.”
Rowan still hasn’t blinked. His jaw ticks once. “You investigated her. Off hearsay.”
Harris’s hands stay folded. “We made inquiries. It’s standard due diligence.” He turns his gaze to me now—direct, assessing. “Ms. Whitmore. There was a disciplinary flag from your time at Havemeyer, wasn’t there? A confidentiality breach at the student legal clinic? Notes leaked from a mediation session that impacted a pending settlement?”
My throat closes.
“I didn’t—” My voice cracks. I swallow and try again. “It wasn’t intentional.”
Rowan blinks, but it’s not a normal blink. It’s slow and surgical, like he’s cataloging everything and calculating who bleeds first.
He leans back in his chair and his eyes flick to Harris. “Did Camden provide the name? Or was that your research?”
Masden clears his throat. “Let’s not escalate?—”
“No,” Rowan cuts in. “Let’s. Because if one of you decided to drag my guest’s name through a private investigation without cause or consent, I’d like to know which liability to address first.”
The table goes still.
No one speaks.
