Page 30 of Obey

Jace, whose whole existence is built on nonstop energy and mayhem, seems steadier with her orbiting close. Even Nate has started making room for her in routines he once guarded like state secrets, though he'd sooner choke than admit it.

“Thursday is still overloaded,” she says, tone calm but unyielding. “You’ve got the Keller prep, the compliance review, and three investor calls stacked back-to-back. Something’s got to give.”

Nate doesn’t look up. “Nothing gives.”

“I’m sorry,” she replies calmly. “I don’t think that was one of the options, Mr. Blackwell. But I’ll give you some grace as I know you can be a little hard of hearing sometimes. So would you like me to repeat them?”

I pause in the doorway and watch that quiet defiance that never escalates, never bends.

Nate exhales, irritation threading through his focus. “If you’re suggesting I push Keller—”

“I’m suggesting you eat lunch,” she cuts in, unruffled. “And that you move the compliance review to Friday, when you’re less likely to bite someone’s head off.”

His jaw tightens with reluctant acknowledgment. He hates being managed.

But Sloane isn’t trying to oversee him. She’s maintaining him. The same way she blocks Jace’s calendar when his sleep debt gets dangerous or intercepts problems before they ever reach my desk.

She takes care of all three of us before we realize we need it.

I step fully into the office. “Sloane.”

She turns, and that familiar spark catches between us before either of us can pretend it didn’t. “Yes?” she asks.

I lean against the frame, arms folded, and raise my eyebrows. “Come with me, please.”

Nate’s gaze flicks between us, sharp and calculating. “She’s in the middle of something.”

“I’m aware.”

She gives Nate a decisive look, then slides off the desk. “You’ll survive for fifteen minutes,” she tells him, and smooths her skirt with a single pass of her palm. “Meanwhile, you can eat that food you think I don’t know you hid when you sent me to get the Whitmore files from Nelson earlier.”

Nate's nostrils flare slightly. "This conversation isn't over."

"She'll be back," I assure him, keeping my voice neutral.

Sloane taps the tablet screen once, closing the calendar app. "Perhaps you'll be in a more cooperative mood by then."

Her heels make precise, measured sounds against the hardwood as she rounds the desk. When she passes, jasmine drifts into my space, a scent I've come to associate with clarity, with balance.

"Is this about the calendar?" she inquires as we make our way down the hall.

"No," I reply.

She accepts that without comment, adjusting her grip as the elevator comes into view. When the doors part, I extend my hand slightly—an invitation.

She steps inside.

As the doors seal shut, cutting us off from the world above, the air shifts.

The doors slide open on a floor that doesn’t bother with polish or illusion.

This is where SOLAÉ stops performing.

Bright, functional lighting washes over concrete scarred by dragged prototypes. The air smells faintly metallic; coolant, circuitry, ambition stripped to its rawest form.

Sloane steps out beside me, taking everything in with one assessing sweep. Her poise doesn’t falter, but curiosity slips through her reserve; the flicker I’ve learned to recognize whenever something genuinely interests her.

“You've seen our general engineering floors," I tell her, stopping at the biometric gate. "This is where we keep the projects that haven't been cleared for wider development. Founders and authorized lead engineers only."