Page 40 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
But here’s the thing:
Ibelievehim.
Itrusthim.
Because every moment spent with him — every laugh, every touch, every conversation — is stored in a place deeper than logic or proof.
But I’m a CEO.
And I owe it to my company — and tothis man who has done nothing but protect me—to demand answers.
“Let’s step outside,” I say, my voice low but steady. “I want to talk to Mr. Grau privately.”
Tidball’s eyes flicker.
Just for a second.
Like something in him was impressed — or threatened — by my statement.
“I’ll let him know,” he says. “Though I’m not sure stepping outside will change the facts.”
“I don’t need facts,” I say, pursing my lips. “I need truth.”
I follow Tidball down the corridor — glass walls, humming lights, the whisper of footsteps swallowed by expensive carpet — and every step feels like a countdown. My pulse is loud under my ribs, like I canhearit, feel it thrum against my diaphragm.
Funny how the body insists on reminding you you’re alive right when you’re most afraid of whatbeing alivemight cost.
“Yara,” Tidball says softly, the cadence of his voice warm like syrup poured over flame, “you know whatthislooks like to the board.”
I don’t answer.
Of course I know what it looks like. It looks like corporate sabotage. It looks like a security breach pinned on a man I trustwith my life. It looks like chaos smeared in red letters across a holo projection in front of every executive in this company.
It also looks like betrayal.
We step out into a small anteroom — just outside the doors to my personal office. Grey walls, bright lights, a holo panel blinking quietly with notifications I don’t have the strength to read.
And he’s right behind me, not in view, not yet, but lingering there, like a scent I can’t shake.
“Jonathan,” I say without turning, voice cold but steady, “I’m going to talk to him alone.”
He nods. He doesn’t argue. That subtle smile — like he’s the calm in every storm and I’m the one misreading the forecast — it doesn’t falter.
“I trust you,” he says.
The weight of that word —trust— sitting there like a warm stone against all this icy tension, is almost too much. But I don’t thank him. I don’t know how to be grateful without feeling indebted, or naïve, or both.
I step through the door into my office.
And there he is.
Grau.
Not defensive.
Not combative.
Just standing by the window — tall, massive, his shadow stretching long against the floor like a blade waiting to be drawn.
