Page 10 of Vamp CEO Bit You Where?

"You called me back because of security?"

"I called because I wanted you inside. The draft is the excuse."

I should go home. Instead, I check the curb one more time, then cross back through security with my phone locked tight against my hand.

Sebastian is waiting by the conference table, jacket off, cuffs turned back, the city stacked black and silver beyond the glass. The screen glows behind him showing a document. Not a contract. Not a schedule. A founder statement for a platform partner threatening to withdraw before morning.

"They want reassurance," he says. "They wrote anesthesia."

I skim the first paragraph. "This is not reassurance. This is a locked door with bullet points."

"Then unlock it."

I cross out the opening line. "Start here. Acknowledge disruption without confessing guilt. Use one plain sentence before you start hiding furniture under sheets."

"No furniture is being hidden."

"You are hiding an entire dining set. Possibly a chandelier."

His mouth almost gives. "You object to the tone."

"I object the insult.People know when they're being soothed by committee. Say the partner raised concerns. Say Crowe Technologies is reviewing access protocols. Say clients will see no service interruption. Then stop talking."

"That leaves very little room to maneuver."

"Good. Maneuvering is what makes it sound guilty."

He studies the screen. I watch him instead of the words, now that he's gone still in that precise, listening manner that makes my skin prickle.

"You came back through the front entrance," he says. "You usually use the garage after nine."

The marker pauses against my thumb. "Do you track every door I use?"

"I track enough."

My laugh comes out thin. "You know, people call billionaires like you bloodless. All glass and no pulse."

The line should slide past him. It doesn't. His attention fixes on me, precise enough to make the joke feel suddenly serious, but he doesn't look offended. He looks caught.

"Do you believe that?" he asks.

"I believe you're lonely."

His hand drops from the table. "That is a bold statement."

"It's observation. Everyone treats you like a verdict they have to survive. Nobody talks to you like you're allowed to be tired."

"Tired is easy. Known is harder."

I think of Owen's version of me traveling faster than my proof ever could. "Being unknown is bad. Being known wrong is worse."

"Yes," Sebastian says. "It is."

For a few minutes, we work without filling the silence. I cut the draft down to eight sentences. He adds one phrase, I remove three. He argues for a line about continuity, and I call it a hostage note written by a shareholder. That finally gets the smallest sound from him, low and surprised.

I reach for the printed copy just as he reaches for it. The pages slide sideways. His hand stops beside mine, close enough that the hairs along my wrist lift, though he never touches me. I could move first. He could. Neither of us does.

"The sentence stays out," I say.