Karen blinked once, then smiled faintly. “Wow, Dr. Vetter. I have never heard you curse before.” She tilted her head, studying him as if he were suddenly fascinating. “How nice to meet you properly.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Do not make me repeat myself.”
She waved a dismissive hand, “Relax. I’m not here to exhume abandoned skeletons or drag ghosts out into daylight. I don’t particularly enjoy stirring ashes that have settled.”
He said nothing.
She let the silence stretch, then shrugged lightly. “All I’m saying is that you have a conference to attend, and I, as your assistant, should be present. Loyalty, support, paperwork. What sort of assistant would I be if I let you handle all that strenuous networking by yourself?”
He continued staring.
Her tone softened into something almost playful. “Mm-hmm. Yes. Exactly that.”
The first thing he said was, “Why go through all this?”
Karen’s smile sharpened. “Now that,” she said quietly, “is another logical question I expected you to ask”
She moved back toward the desk, resting her fingertips lightly against the wood. “Like I said, I need to attend the conference with you. As your office assistant. Perfectly reasonable.”
His temple pulsed. A vein stood faintly against his forehead. His fingers began tapping against the desk, with controlled irritation.
“And on what grounds do you think your accusation stands on that you feel bold enough to threaten me with?”
“On what grounds? Thats arrogant of you to say. Well, for starters…”
She continued, her voice smooth. “Every member of that gang died on the 8th of August. Interesting detail, don’t you think?”
His tapping stopped.
“At first I thought your fixation with the 8th of every month was just eccentric company policy,” she went on casually. “Administrative symbolism, maybe. Until I realized the 8th was the day the entire Syndikat vanished. No bodies. No official reports. Just poof, into thin air.”
The room felt smaller again.
Watching him closely, she said, “Shocking right?… And coincidentally, you also place unusual value on the 8th. Not to mention visiting a lonely garden in the middle of the woods like some sociopath.” She gave a small shrug. “A bit careless, if you ask me. You could have chosen another date because you’re making it too obvious at this point.”
His jaw tightened so hard it almost looked painful.
“But it’s fine,” she added lightly. “I believe in maturity. We both know what we want here and the depth of the skeletons we have buried deep in our closets.”
She straightened. “So tomorrow morning, we leave for the airport. For the conference. Correct?”
His silence stretched.
“What time?” she asked casually.
He then exhaled sharply, his restraint finally thinning. “Ten o’clock.”
The words sounded like they had cost him something.
With that, he shut the book in front of him with a flat, decisive thud. He closed his laptop in one sharp motion.
“You can close for the day,” he said, already turning away.
He did not look at her twice before he walked out of the office without another word.
Karen remained standing for a second, almost surprised by how quickly he had conceded.
Then she slowly sat back down in her chair, smoothed her hair once, and reopened her system as if the last fifteen minutes had been nothing more than routine scheduling.
And so Drogo began his new reality.
By 10 a.m. the next morning, they were seated at the airport lounge, their luggage placed neatly between them like a silent agreement to maintain distance. The crowd moved around them, busy and indifferent.
Drogo focused on his phone, his expression set in cold restraint. He hadn’t spoken to her since the moment he saw her that morning. Not a word. Everything he did around her was deliberate and mute, his silence louder than any insult.
Karen sat beside him, composed as ever, observing without appearing to. If his hostility unsettled her, she did not show it.
When their boarding call was announced, Drogo stood immediately and walked toward the gate. Karen followed without comment.
Another reality waited inside the aircraft.
Seat 14B.
She was 14A.
Of course.
The flight passed in strained silence. Drogo faced forward the entire time, muscles tight, jaw set. Karen did not attempt conversation.
They landed in New York City later that afternoon, dressed and prepared for the evening’s conference. After checking into the hotel, they separated without discussion, retreating into different rooms.
They two hadn’t made contact all through the nights of stay until the final event night.
Finally the night of the event…
The conference hall that evening resembled less of a religious gathering and more of a private gala. Crystal chandeliers spilled warm light over marble floors, polished shoes, and gowns that likely cost more than some people’s yearly salaries. The air carried expensive perfume and quiet power. Laughter floated in calculated tones. Every handshake lingered a second too long. Every smile measured.
Drogo stood near the corner of the hall, engaged in a conversation he wasn’t truly listening to. Something about funding initiatives and moral restoration. He nodded at the right moments, offered brief, intelligent responses, and maintained the polite half-smile he had perfected over the years. In his hand sat a glass of sparkling water disguised convincingly enough as something stronger. He didn’t drink alcohol, but appearances mattered here.
If endurance were a sport, he would medal tonight.
He excused himself from the conversation after an appropriate interval and set the untouched drink aside. Smile. Nod. Shake hands. Repeat. A well-oiled machine dressed in black.
Then something tugged at his attention.
Karen.
Where the hell was she?
She had insisted on being here. Practically engineered her way into the invitation. And now she was nowhere in sight. Drogo told himself it was a relief. A peaceful few minutes. Fewer complications.
He had just convinced himself of that when the entrance doors opened.
Conversation faltered.
Heads turned.
And Karen walked in.
The shift in the room was subtle but undeniable. She wore a sleek gown that sculpted her figure without apology, fabric clinging to her pear-shaped curves with deliberate elegance. A sheer panel traced down her back and another thin line of transparency rested between her collarbones, daring but refined. Her dark skin glowed beneath the chandelier light, radiant against the deep tone of the dress. Her hair was swept to one side, revealing the beautiful view of her face.
Karen didn’t rush — She simply walked.
Drogo felt the reaction ripple through the male population before he even allowed himself to look directly at her. When he did, the impact was immediate. For a fraction of a second, he forgot the script.
Annoying.
She approached him with a delicate, composed smile and wrapped her arms around him as though they were perfectly aligned partners. “Hello, darling.”
He did not smile. He refused to. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come.”
“I know,” she replied softly. “You didn’t hope hard enough.”
And just like that, the performance resumed.
They moved through the evening with calculated ease. Drogo observed her as she navigated conversations effortlessly, speaking with donors, religious leaders, and influential figures as though she belonged among them. She laughed at the right cues, listened with intent, asked the right questions. She was not decoration — but a strategy.
At some point, while Drogo was mid-discussion about outreach programs he had no emotional investment in, he realized something.
Karen was no longer in his peripheral vision.
He scanned the room casually at first.
Then again.
She wasn’t in the hall.