Page 39 of Executive Privilege

He makes the moves, reaches the hold, and settles into a more stable position. But when I look up at him, I can see something close to panic in his expression.

"I need to come down," he says, his voice carefully controlled.

"Okay. Just lean back into your harness and I'll lower you."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended. "I need to finish this."

"Nicholas, you don't—"

"I need to finish this," he repeats, and there's something almost desperate in his voice.

Whatever this is about, it's bigger than just Morrison's climbing demonstration. This is about something personal, something that's been haunting him longer than a simple fear of heights.

"Okay," I say. "But we go slow. One move at a time."

The next ten minutes are some of the longest of my life. Nicholas continues climbing with sheer determination, fighting through whatever demons are telling him to quit. His movements become more erratic as he gets higher, less controlled, more desperate.

At thirty feet, disaster strikes.

Nicholas reaches for a hold, tests it, commits to the move. His hold slips.

He falls.

For a split second that feels like eternity, Nicholas is falling through space with nothing but air beneath him. Then the rope catches, the belay system engages, and he jerks to a stop about five feet below where he started falling.

He's safe. The equipment worked perfectly. But when I look up at him, suspended in his harness and breathing hard, I can see that safety isn't what he's feeling.

"Nicholas! Are you okay?"

"Get me down," he says, his voice hollow. "Now."

I lower him to the ground as quickly as safety allows. The moment his feet touch solid earth, he's working to get out of his harness with shaking hands.

"That was exciting!" Morrison calls out, approaching with his usual oblivious enthusiasm. "Great demonstration of how safety equipment works. Perfect content for showing Morrison Industries' commitment to employee wellbeing."

"Excuse me," Nicholas says, finally getting his harness off and walking away from the group without another word.

I watch him go, torn between following him and maintaining professional appearances with Morrison. I can't abandon the client—but every instinct is telling me to go after Nicholas.

"He'll be alright," Morrison says.

"Yes, he just needs a moment," I say. "Adrenaline from the fall. Perfectly normal reaction."

But there was nothing normal about the expression on Nicholas's face when his feet hit the ground. That was the look of someone reliving trauma, not someone processing a minor climbing incident.

Twenty minutes later, after wrapping up with Morrison and his team, I find Nicholas sitting on a bench behind his cabin, staring out at the pine trees with an expression I've never seen before. Vulnerable. Shaken. Completely stripped of his usual control.

"Hey," I say quietly, sitting beside him on the bench.

"Hey."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly."

We sit in silence for a while, and I can feel the walls rebuilding around him with every passing minute. Whatever crack last night's intimacy created, today's climbing incident just sealed it shut again.

"It wasn't about the fall," I say finally.