I continue before he can answer. "You're going to return to the boardroom. You're going to tell Victor that the mockups are dead. Every copy of this deck, every image file, every draft line, every source photograph, every note identifying Luca's interview as campaign material'll be preserved and sent to counsel by end of day. No deletion. No cleanup. No revised file name. Preserved."
He studies me, and I know he sees it. The tremor in my free hand. The shallow edge of my breathing. The sweat cooling beneath my collar despite the controlled temperature of thehallway. His attention drops to my chest for half a second, toward the place the monitor sits under my shirt, and something unpleasantly satisfied almost reaches his eyes.
"You seem unwell," he says.
Luca shifts behind me.
I squeeze his hand once before he can step around me. "Don't make the mistake of thinking that helps you."
Dorian's gaze returns to mine.
I keep my voice even. "My health doesn't give you access to Ember House. It doesn't give you access to Luca. It doesn't create a gap in consent. It doesn't move a single boundary. If Victor wants to test that, he can do it with every lawyer we've got copied and every piece of proof I just preserved."
For the first time, Dorian's got no immediate answer. That's the win. Not the silence itself, but the fact that he's got nowhere clean to put it. If he pushes, he looks predatory. If he calls me emotional, the photographs become uglier. If he reaches for concern again, the camera catches him standing between Luca and an exit with a tablet full of stolen sanctuary imagery.
He gives me a small nod, the kind men use when they want surrender to look like professional courtesy. "I'll communicate your position."
"No," I say, still quiet. "You'll communicate the boundary."
His jaw tightens, then releases. "The boundary, then."
He steps back. Not far, but enough that Luca can move if he wants to. I don't turn around yet. I keep myself between them while Dorian adjusts his cuff, smooths the front of his jacket, and walks toward the main hallway with the same measured pace he used when he thought he owned the space.
I wait until he turns the corner.
Only then do I let myself breathe fully, and the breath doesn't work the way it should.
For a moment, I stay facing the empty hallway with the tablet still in my hand and Luca's fingers locked around mine. My pulse is too fast. I know that before the monitor gives its warning because I can feel the rhythm skipping under my ribs, a hard flutter followed by a pause that makes the floor seem farther away than it was a second ago. I should sit down. I should tell Luca. I should call Maceo before my body decides to make this announcement for me.
Luca moves first. He steps around me, eyes searching my face, and takes the tablet carefully from my hand. "Blake," he says, and all the fear Dorian put in him's changed shape now. It's still fear, but it's aimed at me.
"I'm fine," I start.
The sentence breaks before I can finish it.
Not because I choose to stop lying. Because my body refuses to support the words. The hallway tilts in a slow, sickening shift, glass walls sliding out of alignment with the floor. My right hand lifts toward Luca's shoulder and misses by inches. The sound from the monitor changes, sharper now, too close to my own skin. I try to take another breath and get only half of one.
Luca's hands come to my waist. "Blake, look at me."
I do look at him. I try to, at least. His face is there and not there, chestnut curls, wide eyes, mouth moving around words that my hearing catches a second late. I think he says my name again. I think he calls for help. My knees soften before I can lock them, and the awful thing's that some part of my mind's still clear enough to be embarrassed.
I won, I want to tell him.
Dorian backed off. The files are preserved. The line held. I protected you.
None of that reaches my mouth.
The tablet slips from Luca's grip onto the carpet when he lunges for me with both arms. He catches me under theshoulders as my weight folds forward, and he goes down with me because I'm too heavy and he refuses to let go. The floor comes up slowly and then all at once. Luca gets one hand behind my head before it can hit, his body tucked under mine at an awkward angle, his scent flooding the narrow space between us.
"Help," he shouts, and the word tears out of him raw enough that it cuts through the hallway's polished quiet. "Maceo! Luther! Someone, please!"
I try again to tell him I'm fine. The lie's there, waiting behind my teeth. My chest stutters wrong before I can force it out, and the dark gathers at the edges of Luca's face, his arms tightening around me as I go under.
22
Luca
Blake goes down in my arms.
