Chapter 23
2143words
Sinclair Dominion HQ | Conference Hall
Shortly After Noon
The files landed on the table with a weight heavier than paper alone.
Maxim didn’t look at anyone as he withdrew the first folder and slid it forward. The header alone made two legal advisors flinch. OPERATION: IRON SIGIL – Joint Strike Authorization.
Harold stepped forward next, his voice like gravel smoothed by time. “These documents contain every sanctioned mission executed by the entity known as Black Harrow. Not vigilante killings. Not mercenary work. Government-sanctioned strikes, under provisional wartime clauses and cross-border threat protocols.”
Lucian didn’t miss the weight of his grandfather’s words. Harold hadn’t spoken a word about Kristina since the night of the industrial ambush—but something had shifted. Maybe after the attack and everything that followed at the hospital, he and Maxim had finally talked. It was a hundred percent plausible. Of course they would have. And for the first time in years, Lucian felt it—that quiet, rare certainty that Harold was standing on his side. Not against him. Not questioning his judgment. Even now, with the company on the edge and Kristina’s name in every broadcast—he wasn’t here to stop him. He was here to support him.
A murmur moved through the room.
Savannah narrowed her eyes, gaze locked on the documents. “And we’re just supposed to take your word for it?”
Maxim’s smile spread, razor-thin and deliberate. “No. You can take theirs.” He flipped open a tab: letterhead from the Department of Defense, dated years back. Heavily redacted, but unmistakably authentic.
“Signatures from your own nation’s council. From allies you dine with. You’ll find the names familiar. Unless you’ve forgotten where your father’s funding used to come from.”
Lucian didn’t speak. He let the tension expand. Let them feel it.
Savannah leaned back in her chair, but her mask didn’t crack. “So she was your weapon. That doesn’t explain why she’s sitting in this room. Or why you’re protecting her now.”
“She’s not a weapon anymore,” Lucian said, voice low and clear. “She’s a person. A member of this team. And unless you’re planning to question every ex-operative who’s ever changed careers, I suggest you reconsider the line you’re drawing.”
“She’s not just any ex-operative,” someone from the far end of the table snapped. “She’s a legend. A ghost story. People will riot over this. You’re asking us to pretend she’s a regular bodyguard?”
Kristina stood motionless behind Lucian, silent and unyielding.
“She’s not a ghost story,” Lucian said. “She’s standing right here. And she’s already saved every one of your investments by keeping me alive.”
A quiet fell again.
Then Maxim’s voice returned, crisp and cold. “What you’re all afraid of isn’t her identity. It’s the mirror she holds to your own cowardice. She did what none of you could stomach—eliminated threats before they became catastrophes. And now that she’s no longer useful to your narrative, you want to burn her at the stake for surviving it.”
A few faces paled. One man quietly closed his laptop.
Lucian exhaled through his nose, then spoke again, calmer now. “We didn’t come here to plead. We came here to inform. You can accept this truth—or you can start drafting your exit papers. Either way, Kristina Alonzo is staying.”
For the first time, Kristina’s voice entered the room. Soft. Unyielding.
“You don’t have to accept me. But don’t pretend you didn’t benefit from what I’ve done.”
Heads turned. Her gaze didn’t flinch.
Lucian looked toward the panel. “So. What’s it going to be?”
A heavy pause settled over the room after Lucian’s final words. But it didn’t last long.
“I motion for a vote,” said one of the regional liaisons—older, cautious, but not unkind. “If we’re to proceed with Mr. Sinclair’s leadership—and by extension, Miss Alonzo’s continued position—we need formal consensus.”
Lucian’s chest tightened—not with fear, but with clarity. Of course it would come to this. A line in ink, forcing hands into the open. This wasn’t just about Kristina. It never had been. It was about whether they would still follow him—now that his choices weren’t theoretical. Now that his loyalty had a name, a face, a consequence.
He heard the flick of a pen, the scrape of a chair, the dry shuffle of nerves dressed in suits.
Across the room, Kristina didn’t move. She stood behind him still, unreadable—but in her chest, something braced. A vote. They were voting on her. Not her skill. Not her record. Her presence. Her right to exist in their world.
For a moment, she felt nine again—watching a tribunal decide her fate in another country, with another name. This time, at least, she wasn’t alone.
“Seconded,” someone muttered. Begrudging. Tight.
Lucian’s voice didn’t waver. “Call the vote.”
Hands were raised. Names called. Numbers logged. The silence between each declaration felt longer than it was.
Kristina counted them too—despite herself. She wasn’t supposed to care. But a small, foolish part of her still did.
Not all voted—some abstained with careful neutrality—but the tally didn’t lie.
Majority support. Not unanimous. But enough.
“Motion passes,” the liaison announced. “Mr. Sinclair retains executive authority. Miss Alonzo remains under his directive.”
Lucian exhaled, but only once. He didn’t let it show. Relief was a currency he couldn’t afford—not here. But inside, something settled. Not victory. Just confirmation. He had drawn his line, and enough of them had chosen to stand on his side.
Beside him, Kristina’s spine remained straight. Her pulse still measured. But for the first time since the morning, she allowed herself to breathe.
Savannah gave a small tilt of her head, like she’d expected this all along. But the tension in her jaw betrayed the smile she didn’t wear.
Around the table, not everyone looked satisfied. One advisor gathered his things a little too quickly. Another whispered something to a colleague, barely masked behind a hand. Faces lingered in the soft-lit silence, undecided not because they disagreed—but because they feared what backing Lucian might cost them next.
The meeting ended without ceremony. Chairs scraped. Folders shut. A few execs exited swiftly, polite nods masking unease. A crack had formed. Thin. Almost invisible. But Lucian saw it.
Kristina didn’t wait for anyone. She stepped out quietly, without a word. The moment the final decision was logged, she turned and walked out of the hall—not in retreat, not in victory. Just done being spoken about.
Lucian didn’t stop her. He only watched. And in the space she left behind, the room somehow felt louder.
Savannah stood next, gathering her papers with deliberate care. But as she turned, Harold stepped into her path. He didn’t touch her—didn’t need to. Just leaned in slightly.
“You’ve played politics long enough to know the cost of burning bridges,” he said, voice low. “Try burning family next, and see what survives the smoke.”
Savannah’s mouth tensed, but she didn’t reply—just walked past.
Eventually, the room thinned, footsteps fading into the hush. Until only Lucian remained, standing at the head of the table where it had all unraveled and reformed in the same breath.
Sinclair Dominion HQ | Office of The CEO
Lucian left the boardroom without a word. He didn’t look back, didn’t slow, didn’t flinch at the rustle of movement behind him—the quiet tension that hummed through the halls like static after lightning. He knew what was coming: the calls, the questions, the press releases clawing their way up the chain. But none of it mattered. Not now. Not when she hadn’t said a single word after the vote.
Outside his office, he found them. Ash leaned back into the armrest of a couch, one foot tapping rhythmically against the floor, silent now after what had clearly been a long and restless wait. Vex sat cross-legged with his tablet off for once, fingers still. Eli stood with a paper cup of coffee gone cold in his hand, gaze fixed on the carpet. And Sebastian, ever unreadable, hovered near the window, arms folded, as if standing guard even without being asked.
None of them looked startled when Lucian appeared.
“She’s inside,” Sebastian said first, his voice quiet but clear, nodding toward the closed office door.
“She didn’t say anything,” Vex added, voice lower than usual. “Just walked in.”
Eli gave a small nod. “We figured she needed space.”
Ash glanced toward the door and shrugged—not carelessly, but with a kind of understanding that didn’t need to be voiced.
Lucian took all of it in. Said nothing.
Just nodded—slow and grateful—and turned toward the door.
He didn’t hesitate.
His hand closed around the handle, and with a soft click, it gave way beneath his palm.
Lucian stepped inside, deliberate and quiet.
The room was quiet.
Kristina stood near the far shelf, not tucked away, not hiding—just still. Her silhouette caught the late light slanting through the blinds, casting faint lines across her shoulders. One arm rested against the edge of the bookshelf, fingers curled slightly around the wood like it grounded her. Her head was tilted down, chin just barely lowered, eyes closed.
Her breathing was even—too even. The kind forged by control, not calm—the kind that covered cracks instead of healing them.
Dark strands of hair had slipped forward, curtaining part of her face. She didn’t move when he entered. She didn’t turn. But she didn’t retreat either.
She wasn’t broken.
She just looked… tired.
Lucian said nothing. He didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t try to fix it—just stood with her, letting the silence do what words couldn’t.
He just joined her.
Minutes passed like that—quiet, without obligation, the silence soft enough to hold them both.
And then, finally, her voice—low, level, but quiet in a way that made it feel more real than anything she’d said all day.
“You didn’t have to do all that.”
Lucian’s reply came gently. “I did.” His voice was just above a whisper. “You just don’t think you deserve it.”
Something shifted in the air. Barely. A change in the rhythm of her breath. A catch—not sharp, not dramatic. Just human. Unarmored.
And then—for the first time—she cried.
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t break the silence like glass. But it changed everything.
Her shoulders didn’t shake. Her spine didn’t curve. But her chin dipped half an inch lower, and a tear fell. Then another. And another.
Slow. Deliberate. As if she had held them back for so long, they didn’t quite know how to fall freely.
Lucian froze, breath caught in his chest. He had never seen her like this. Not in all the chaos. Not even in the hospital.
But now—here—she let herself feel.
He stepped toward her. Carefully.
Reached for her cheek, fingers brushing lightly, reverently, along the trail of tears. His voice barely made it out.
“Kristina,” he said, quiet but unwavering. “Look at me.”
And she did.
Her eyes met his—shining, distant, glassed over but not evasive. She looked at him as if it took effort not to look away.
He brushed another tear away, silent still—as if speech might shatter what this moment allowed.
He just stayed there. Close. Their faces inches apart.
She didn’t pull back.
He could feel the tension in her breath, the weight behind it. She was holding something back—not anger, not pain exactly, but something heavier. Something she’d carried for too long without ever offering it to anyone else.
She still wasn’t ready. And he didn’t need her to be.
He didn’t ask why she was crying.
He just gave her the space to do it.
“When you’re ready,” Lucian said softly, “I’ll be here.”
She didn’t answer. But another tear slipped free.
And then he leaned in—not to her lips, not to her cheek—but to the line of tears falling down the curve of her jaw. He pressed his lips to one of them. One kiss. Long. Gentle. A kiss without demand. A gesture without agenda. A truth without pressure.
Kristina felt something stir deep in her chest—warm, unfamiliar, almost unbearable. She didn’t say a word. Just closed her eyes.
When he pulled back, Lucian didn’t leave that space between them. Instead, he reached for her again.
One arm slid around her back. The other rose to cradle the back of her head, fingers weaving into her hair as if they’d always known how to hold her.
He drew her in—slow, certain—until her heartbeat pressed against his.
And she came with him—her arms rising, steady and certain, to wrap around him in return.
Lucian exhaled against her hair, eyes closing as he held her.
And somewhere in the quiet, his thoughts flickered—not with answers, but with feeling.
It hurt to see her cry.
But more than that, it meant something deeper than pain.
Maybe she was beginning to let herself be seen.
And to him, that meant everything.
The room stayed quiet. But something essential had changed.
—To be continued.
