Page 17

Instead, he grunts. “That’s efficient.”

And maybe it’s the heat, or the adrenaline, or the fact that I haven’t eaten since breakfast—but that sounds dangerously close to a compliment.

“And finally,” I add, clicking to the last slide on the projector, “I reorganized the daily schedules to make room for downtime. Quiet hour, post-lunch. Structured silence. Kids need time to process.”

Renault leans forward. “That wasn’t in the original outline.”

“Nope,” I say. “It wasn’t.”

Dena’s eyes narrow, thoughtful. “You’re not just managing logistics.”

“I’m not just a secretary.”

Torack speaks then, low and deliberate. “No. You’re not.”

The words land like a warm weight in my chest.

When the meeting ends, the others drift out—Groth muttering about fungus rotations, Renault double-checking his scarf’s wrinkle ratio, Dena levitating off with perfect grace.

I linger.

So does he.

Torack leans against the edge of the table, arms crossed, gaze still locked on me like I just performed a magic trick and he’s not sure if he wants to applaud or interrogate me.

“You hijacked my meeting,” he says.

“I optimized it.”

“You outmaneuvered my contractor.”

“He left a soggy bag of shrooms in the communal fridge.”

“You organized a full operational pivot without telling me.”

“I was going to tell you,” I say. “Right after I did it.”

He tilts his head, eyes scanning my face. “You always work like this?”

“Only when people assume I don’t know what I’m doing.”

There’s a beat.

“I don’t assume that anymore,” he says.

Silence stretches, taut and strange and full of something unspoken.

“You’re sweating,” he says.

“I’mworking,” I reply, reaching up to swipe at my forehead.

Torack takes a step closer. My pulse stutters.

“You need water?”

“I need people to stop doubting me.”

“I don’t,” he says again. Lower now. Closer.