Page 72 of Claimed By the Boss
“You want the real reason,”I say. “Not the one in the file.”
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. Her silence is its own kind of permission, the wrist still caught in my hand, her eyes fixed on mine with a fury that hasn’t softened even slightly since she opened that folder.
“Fourteen candidates,” I say. “Every one of them came with something attached. A family connection somewhere in this world, a debt to a faction, a brother or a cousin or a husband who’d already taken money from someone I couldn’t trust. People carry things they don’t always know they’re carrying. My team found every thread on every one of them.”
“And I didn’t.”
“You came in clean. Genuinely clean, not clean because you’d hidden something well. There was nothing to find because there was nothing there. No agenda. No connections. Nothing you could buy with that my organization didn’t already control through your sister’s medical bills, which is the only leverage point that existed and the only one I built the contract around.”
“That’s not a reason, Zane. That’s a justification for why I was convenient.”
“I needed someone inside this structure I could actually trust,” I say, and I hear my own voice drop into something I don’t usually let her hear, something underneath the calculation. “Not someone loyal because they were paid to be. Someone who couldn’t be turned, because there was nothing in her life anyone else could offer that I hadn’t already secured. You were the only person my investigation could not find a single reason to distrust.”
The room is quiet for a long moment.
“So I wasn’t chosen,” she says. “I was the only option that didn’t come with a built-in betrayal.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me, and something in her face closes, not the anger from before, something colder and more final.
“That’s not a reason to fall in love with someone,” she says. “That’s a reason to hire a security guard.”
“Celine.”
“Let go of me.”
I let go.
She picks up the folder from where it slipped to the floor sometime in the last several minutes, neither of us noticing exactly when, and she walks to the door. I don’t stop her this time. I told her I would open the door myself if she still wanted to leave after hearing the truth, and I’m not going to be the kindof man who breaks his word the same day he asks her to trust the rest of it.
The lock turns. The door opens. She doesn’t look back.
I listen to her footsteps down the corridor, then the sound of her own door closing, firm but not slammed, which is somehow worse than if she’d slammed it.
I pour a drink I don’t intend to finish.
The office is quiet in the way it gets after she’s been in it and then isn’t, a kind of absence that has weight even though absence shouldn’t. I sit behind my desk, glass in hand, and I let myself go back to the night this actually started, eight months before any of it had a name.
I’m at this same desk, late, the city the same indifferent shape it always is, when Roman brings me the third round of candidate files. I have already rejected eleven. Connections to rival factions, debts owed to people I don’t trust, family members who could be leveraged against the organization the moment anyone looked. Eleven files, eleven reasons, and I’m tired in the way that comes from searching for something you’re starting to believe doesn’t exist.
Her file is thin. Younger than the others, no graduate degree, no impressive client list. My first instinct is to set it aside.
Roman tells me to keep reading.
I do. A sister with a chronic illness. A house with no mortgage that she’s twice considered selling and twice refused.
A work history that shows up exactly where it should, no gaps, no inconsistencies, nothing that requires explaining away. I read through the financial summary, and something settles in me that I don’t immediately recognize, because it isn’t relief at finding a clean candidate. It’s something closer to recognition.
I have my investigators dig further. Three more weeks. They come back with nothing new, which is itself the finding. No hidden connections. No leverage anyone else could use against her that I hadn’t already accounted for.
I tell my legal team to begin drafting the contract.
I don’t yet know what I am building beyond the structural necessity, the council’s pressure, the succession requirement, and the need for someone the organization cannot turn. I tell myself this is purely strategic, the same way I’ve told myself every decision in this life is purely strategic, because strategic decisions don’t require examining what else might be underneath them.
I review her file one more time before the contract is finalized. A photograph from a previous employer’s website, professional, unremarkable, the kind of headshot that tells you nothing true about a person.
I look at it longer than the decision requires.
