There's no reason for him to remain. The absence of a reason feels heavier than a direct threat.
"I hoped we might speak eventually," he says, shifting the tablet against his arm. "About Ember House. Not now, of course, unless you've got a minute. I know you're on your way somewhere."
The words give me an exit. His body doesn't.
"Questions about Ember House can go through Maceo," I say. "The sanctuary's separate from the merger."
"Absolutely." His agreement comes quickly, almost gently. "I understand the legal separation. I'm asking more about language than structure. Public understanding. Mission clarity. You've got a perspective no one else can provide."
The compliment's shaped well enough that refusing it feels rude. That's part of the pressure. Dorian keeps his voice quiet, too quiet for anyone down the hall to hear without stopping, and I hate that I have to stay still to make sense of what he's saying. The children stay close, listening to my body more than his words.
"I'm not part of your marketing team," I say. “And my husband’s company doesn’t buy access to me.”
"No. Of course not." He moves half a step, as if to ease the tension, but the path to the elevator remains blocked unless I pass close enough to brush his sleeve. "That's not what I meant. I'm interested in how people tell the truth without harming themselves. The work you do at Ember House is important. I imagine some residents may eventually want to speak for themselves, if handled with care. Consent-based. Controlled. Protective."
Every word's reasonable on its own.
Together, they make the hallway smaller.
"Some people choose to share pieces of their history," I say. "That choice belongs to them. So does privacy."
"I agree." Dorian lowers his gaze for a moment, a careful show of thoughtfulness. "Privacy matters. I'd never suggest otherwise. But visibility can protect a mission too. Funding follows understanding. Public trust follows connection. I wonder whether hiding the human impact entirely leaves the sanctuary more vulnerable in the long run."
My scent changes before I can stop it.
It goes heavy and sweet, syrup-thick with distress, and James reacts first. His hand clamps around the back of my sweater, fingers twisting into the fabric. Samuel steps closer to my front, not fully blocking me yet, but placing his body where he thinks it might matter. Rosalie's breath catches in two small, frightened sounds against my hip.
Dorian glances at Rosalie, then away.
"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I don't mean to upset anyone."
The apology's perfect. Too perfect to hold.
"You're standing between us and the elevator," I say.
He looks toward the elevator as if he's only just noticed where he is, and then he shifts aside. Half a step. Enough to become defensible. Not enough to feel open.
"There," he says, still quiet. "Better?"
I can't answer. My throat's closed around the shape of every thing I should say. Move. Tell him to step back. Call Luther. Call Blake. Put the children behind you. Walk through the space anyway. It's not a room with a locked door. It's not a basement. It's a hallway inside Keller Industries in the middle of the day, with people beyond the glass and my mates close enough to reach if I could make my hand move toward my phone.
My hand doesn't move.
Dorian's expression softens. "Your story's already inspired people, Luca. Whether intentionally or not. Ember House exists because you survived and chose to build something from survival. I can only imagine what donors might understand if that connection were framed with the care it deserves."
Samuel steps fully in front of me.
His body's small. His voice isn't. "We need to go now."
Dorian looks down at him. Only for a second, but James starts shaking against my side, and Rosalie begins to cry. Not loudly at first. She says Luther's name into my sweater like she's trying to summon him from the fabric, then says it again with a broken little sob that cuts through the hallway and reaches whatever part of me is still frozen.
Samuel reaches back for James without looking away from Dorian. "Papa, we need to go now."
That moves me.
I lift Rosalie with one arm, the crown pressed between us, and force my feet toward the space Dorian's left. The lunch bag swings against my leg. Coffee sloshes inside one of the cups. My shoulder doesn't touch him. Nothing touches me. No one stops us. That's what makes it so hard to breathe, because the fear has nowhere clean to attach itself.
Dorian says, "I apologize again if I overstepped," and the words follow us to the elevator like something spilled across the floor.
