Page 38 of Executive Privilege

Something flickers across his expression—surprise, maybe, or gratitude. Like he's not used to someone advocating for him. I don't know if he's going to lash out at me or thank me.

"It's just a climbing wall," he says, but his voice lacks conviction.

"Is it? Because you've been tense since Morrison brought it up, and yesterday."

Nicholas is quiet for a long moment, staring out the lodge windows toward the climbing wall visible through the trees. "I had an accident when I was younger. A fall. Nothing dramatic, just... enough to make me prefer solid ground."

The admission is careful, controlled, but I can hear the weight behind it. "How bad?"

"Bad enough." He turns back to me. "But that was a long time ago, and this is a controlled environment with safety equipment. I'll be fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"I will be fine," he corrects harshly. And then more softly, "Especially with an expert belayer."

The trust implicit in that statement makes my chest tight. He's going to face something that terrifies him because Morrison asked, but he's trusting me to keep him safe while he does it.

"Okay," I say. "But we do this my way. I pick the route, I control the pace, and if you want to come down at any point, we come down. No questions, no explanations to Morrison."

"Agreed."

Two hours later, I'm standing at the base of the climbing wall with Nicholas, both of us in harnesses and helmets, while Morrison and his team gather to document our "professional partnership in action."

"Remember," I say quietly, adjusting Nicholas's harness, "this is about trust, not speed. I'm on belay, which means I control your safety line. If you slip, I've got you."

"And if you slip?"

"I don't slip."

Nicholas's mouth quirks upward despite his obvious tension. "Confident."

"Experienced. There's a difference."

I've chosen an intermediate route that looks challenging but has solid holds and good resting spots.

"Ready?" I ask.

Nicholas looks up at the wall, and I can see him mentally preparing himself for something he clearly doesn't want to do. "Ready."

He starts climbing with careful, controlled movements. His technique is actually better than I expected—precise and methodical, though lacking the fluid confidence that comes with experience. About ten feet up, he pauses at a resting hold.

"How are you doing?" I call up.

"Fine," he replies, but his voice is tighter than before.

He continues climbing, making steady progress despite the obvious effort each move requires. At twenty feet, he pauses again, this time for longer.

"Nicholas? Talk to me."

"Just... taking a moment."

I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he's gripping the holds tighter than necessary. He's fighting something internal, and it's taking everything he has to continue.

"You're doing great," I say. "Nice controlled movements. Do you see the big hold about three feet above your right hand?"

"I see it."

"That's a good resting spot. Take your time getting there."