Page 6 of Conning Her Dragonkin Boss (Mated to the Monster: Season 3)

Chapter Six

A FLAWLESS EXECUTION… ALMOST

Sunny Adlawan

Running a high-stakes financial review for the most powerful executives in Obsidian City is like disarming a bomb while cradling a sleeping baby.

One wrong move, one offbeat rocking, and—poof. Flames, destruction, and possibly an uncomfortable HR meeting.

The conference room is packed, tension thick in the air as executives and their corresponding admin settle into their respective tables, murmuring to one another as they prepare for the quarterly review. The large screen displays the opening slides, the Vormugh Enterprises logo gleaming at the forefront.

I smooth my hands down my blazer, fingers brushing against the hidden folds of my planner. Everything is set. The documents are preloaded. The reports are sorted. The video connection is flawless.

No mistakes.

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders back as the meeting begins.

Khanner is at the head of the table, commanding attention without a single wasted motion. He barely looks at the first few slides, his confidence in the data evident.

It’s fascinating to watch him work.

His presence alone is powerful—not just because he’s a dragonkin, but because of how effortlessly he wields control.

Normally, I’d be intimidated.

Instead, I feel energized. Because for the first time in my professional life, I’m not struggling to keep up. I actually feel…fine. Comfortable. As if I can do this in my sleep, which I practically do as an insomniac anyway.

Compared to making various customers happy, I just need to make one person happy. Khanner Rokoth, CFO. If I can make him happy, the entire office would never let me leave.

And, despite my usual self-loathing monologue, I know I’m doing well.

I see the realization settle in his expression. He doesn’t outright say it, but I feel it in the way he observes me—the way his sharp, discerning gaze lingers just a little longer than necessary. That he’s not billowing smoke from his mouth and has his wings hidden are yet more signs that he’s in a good mood. The Admin Gossip Club? hasn’t steered me wrong yet.

The meeting continues, and the usual back-and-forth discussions of financial projections and departmental updates pass without issue. Until?—

A number flashes on the screen.

Something is off.

I feel it before I fully process it.

The VP of Logistics is explaining an operational adjustment, but I already see the discrepancy. It’s subtle—but it’s there.

I glance down at my notes, confirming the figures.

He’s wrong.

I don’t hesitate.

“Excuse me, Ser Levain,” I interject smoothly, my voice steady.

The room quiets, and all eyes turning to me.

I feel the weight of Khanner’s attention most of all.

Levain looks at me, slightly annoyed. “Yes?”

I tap the screen, pulling up the corrected figures. “You mentioned a seven percent reduction in distribution costs, but based on the latest numbers, it’s closer to five-point-four percent. The variance is due to last month’s unforeseen supply chain delays, which weren’t factored into your projections.”

Silence.

Then—Levain blinks.

His expression shifts. First to mild irritation. Then realization.

“She’s right,” another executive mutters, pulling up his own screen.

A few others murmur in agreement.

I keep my expression neutral, even as heat floods my skin. I did that. I caught that.

Levain clears his throat, adjusting his tie. “Thank you for catching that, Ms. Adlawan.”

My stomach twists—not with anxiety, but with pride.

I sit back, forcing myself to stay calm. I almost brush it off as luck, but no. It wasn’t luck. It’s me being good at this job. At my job.

I chance a glance at Khanner.

He’s staring at me.

No. He’s studying me.

Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he says, “Good catch.”

Simple words, spoken quietly, but they seem to reverberate in a quiet room.

He’s not the type to hand out unnecessary praise, and I know it. Everyone knows it. So when he gives it—everyone knows it. And most importantly, I know I earned it.

From the corner of my eye, Harla gives me a subtle thumbs-up, confirming my thoughts.

A warmth spreads through me, unexpected and deeply satisfying.

The meeting continues, and I settle back into my role, managing the transitions between speakers, pulling up data as needed, keeping everything running smoothly.

When the final slide concludes and the executives begin packing up, I brace myself for the usual polite but distant acknowledgments.

Instead—

“Excellent work today, Ms. Adlawan.” One of the senior VPs pauses beside me, giving an approving nod.

Another chimes in. “Impressive execution.”

And then—Urul Vormugh.

CEO. Head of the Vormugh family. Titan of industry. An orc’s orc.

He looms a full foot taller than me, tusked and broad, with an undeniable presence. If the conference room is a battlefield of intellect, he is the warlord overseeing it. And yet, when he speaks, his tone is warm.

“You handled yourself well, Ms. Adlawan.” His eyes gleamed with approval. “I believe you will be a welcome addition to our team at the next quarterly board meeting.”

Quarterly board meeting?

Before I could fully process what that meant, Royce leaned in with an approving grin. “Agreed. You’re going to make our lives much easier.”

My chest swelled with quiet pride.

I had just been invited into the highest level of company operations.

And then?—

Khanner’s gaze flicks to me, unreadable. “I was planning to discuss that with my assistant.”

My chest tightens slightly, but before I can decipher if that was approval or dismissal, Urul lets out a booming laugh.

“Ah, of course. Well, while you’re discussing things with your assistant, I have a certain Senior VP I’m eager to get back to.”

I frown. Why does that sound loaded?

Royce smirks. “Yes, Urul. Don’t keep your assistant waiting.”

Khanner barely reacts.

But something unspoken passes between them.

I don’t have time to dwell on it before Urul turns back to me.

“Apologies—” he lowers his voice, conspiratorial, “We refer to my mate, who is also the Senior VP of Property Development.” He points to a beautiful woman chatting with Harla. When he does, his jacket sleeve shifts back from his wrist, revealing mixed metal cuffs adorned with intricate inlays.

Mating cuffs.

The term lodges itself in my brain, and I file it away for later.

Are those a universal Otherkin thing? Or is it just an Orc tradition?

I make a mental note to research that later, even as I quickly glance at Khanner’s hands.

No cuffs.

I shouldn’t care.

But for some reason, I do.

I don’t realize that I’m standing alone next to Khanner until he turns toward me, his wings gradually rising like twin sails from his back. He must have seen my surprise because they were suddenly retracted once more, a wry smile curving up the corner of his mouth.

He is not allowed to look that attractive.

“Apologies for startling you, Ms. Adlawan. They have a mind of their own sometimes.”

I giggle. “Oh, please call me Sunny. Ms. Adlawan reminds me of one of my aunties. And your wings didn’t startle me. I was more intrigued about where they came from. Rather where they go. When they’re not—you know—present.” My fingers flutter in the air to indicate the space around him. “I notice sometimes they’re in some pictures rather than others. Not that I’m looking at pictures, I’m just saying I just noticed.”

Good lord, I need to stop talking. This is what happens when I go off script. Words just tumble out of my mouth for no reason.

Khanner, at least, takes it all in stride. “They don’t really go anywhere, it’s more that they can disappear from sight if I control them enough. They take up a lot of space, so it is easier this way.”

“No they don’t,” I protest. “Your wings are part of you. You don’t need to shrink yourself. We can adjust. Of course, if you prefer not to, that’s also fine, as I’m sure you know as they are your wings, and you’re the boss and all.”

I want to slap myself in the face to keep from speaking some more, and honestly debate if he would think that would be better or worse than my neverending word vomit.

Khanner’s wings fold to settle on his shoulders and drape down his back like a cloak. He’s one crown and sword away from looking like a deposed royal ready to battle to reclaim his throne. “Well, I will keep that in mind,” he says. “You did great work today, Sunny. I look forward to your recap email. I will make sure to CC you on the next quarter’s recurring events in the calendar.”

“Thank you for saying. I will look out for the notifications, Ser Rokoth.”

As Khanner shifts away, he pauses once more to level a molten stare at me. “If I am calling you Sunny, you shall call me Khanner.”

Well, yes, Ser. The demand makes my stomach twist in pleasant knots. “Of course. Enjoy the rest of your day, Khanner.”

Something flickers in his gaze before he turns away and joins his partners out of the conference room.

I take a moment to collect myself because I am boneless. Completely made of nothing but hot molten lava.

The rest of the executives and senior level management file out, and I exhale slowly, shoulders relaxing.

It’s over. And I didn’t just survive it, I aced it.

The only thing waiting for me now is a pile of reports and recap emails. I start distilling the key takeaways from the meeting in my head as I gather random trash and office debris left behind.

I gather my things, already mentally shifting gears to the reports I will write up at my workstation and the after hours drinks I still need to RSVP on.

Then—a ping .

I glance at my tablet.

A notification.

Updated Calendar Event: Quarterly Board Meeting –April 14-16. Attendance Required

I swipe to see the full event information and I pause midstride. My stomach sinks seeing the familiar date.

I dig through my purse and pull out my planner, flipping pages with increasing dread until I land on?—

WYVERN’S DAWN COSPLAY CONVENTION – April 14-16

I stare at it then look back to my tablet.

The Quarterly Board Meeting.

My cosplay convention.

The same. Damn. Weekend.

I sink into the nearest chair, gripping my planner like it had personally betrayed me.

Oh. No. No no no no no no no no.

My dream convention—the one I’ve been planning for months, the one where I have the perfect cosplay lined up—is on the exact same weekend as a mandatory work weekend.

An event I was invited to personally by the CEO—and yes, perhaps my boss—because I just had to prove to myself I could kick ass.

Talk about flying too close to the sun.

I want to scream.

Instead, I sit there, silent and already mentally calculating my options.

Because this is a problem.

A big problem.

And I have exactly one month to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.