Page 85 of Sexting His Assistant

A few gazes drop.

“Unauthorized individuals entered through a service level during a shift change. Security confronted them. The situation escalated. Several people were injured.”

Almost true.

“The matter is being handled by security and the relevant authorities.”

Also almost true, depending on which authorities one means.

“There’s no evidence of an ongoing threat to employees on the legitimate floors of Kazan Group.”

That one tastes worst. Because there’s evidence of threat everywhere.

It’s simply not the kind that belongs in an employee briefing.

I continue, voice even. “Access protocols have changed. Security has been expanded. Some of you will find the new measures inconvenient. You will follow them anyway.”

A nervous flicker of laughter moves through part of the room.

“The attack was attempted theft and intimidation by outside criminals. It failed. It will not affect operations. It will not affect the acquisition timeline. You are expected to return to work with discipline and professionalism.”

Now, I tell myself, this is necessary. A speaker should know his audience. A commander reads fear. A CEO finds doubt and crushes it before it spreads.

I’m not looking for Nina. Then I find her.

And for one moment, the room leaves me.

She stands near the left wall, halfway behind a row of senior coordinators, as if she deliberately chose a place where she could see without being seen too easily. Typical. Dark hair loose today instead of pinned, falling over the shoulders of a cream blouse tucked into a charcoal skirt. No navy dress. No glass-wall boardroom. No blood on her hands.

She looks ordinary.

No. That is the lie.

She looks like herself.

Quietly furious with something, perhaps me, perhaps the world, perhaps both. Her mouth is set in a straight line, her arms folded, one hip leaned lightly against the wall as if she is impatient for the speech to end. There is no visible sign of the garage on her, no wound, no bruise, no proof that two weeks ago she was on the concrete beneath me while bullets cut through the dark.

But I see it anyway.

I see the way her fingers press into her own sleeve. I see the way her gaze keeps tracking the security near the doors. I see the way she is pretending not to scan for exits.

And still, the sight of her takes the breath out of me.

Her eyes meet mine across a room full of employees, and something in her face changes.

There and gone so quickly no one else would catch it.

But I do. I catch it and hold it like a fool.

My fingers tighten around the lectern.

I finish the address without remembering half of what I say.

Something about resilience. Protocol. Continuing work. Directing questions to department heads. Not engaging with media. Reporting suspicious activity. Legal phrases dressed in my voice, leaving my mouth on command because I have done harder things than speak while distracted.

When it ends, no one applauds.

They’re too unsure if they should.