Page 47 of Duty Compromised

But this morning hadn’t been about me. It had been about showing Charlotte that she was worth taking time with. Worth savoring. Worth more than some clinical experiment or rushed encounter.

That she was beautiful.

“Hughes? You still there?”

I shook off the memory. “Yeah. Sorry. So, timeline?”

“Seven days until the auction. Can she do it?”

I looked at Charlotte again. She’d switched to her left monitor, lines of code scrolling past faster than I could track. Her lips moved silently, working through some problem, and then she let out a little victory whoop that made me smile despite everything.

“If anyone can, it’s her.”

“Good. Keep her safe, Ty. Whatever it takes.”

The line went dead. I stood there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, processing everything George had just laid out. Twelve potential buyers. Making 9/11 look like kids’ play. The director breathing down his neck.

And Charlotte in the next room, carrying the weight of the only solution we had.

I shoved the phone into my pocket and pulled it back out almost immediately, switching to messages. If someone inside Vertex was involved—either knowingly or as an unwitting pawn—we needed to know before they made another move.

Any updates on those Vertex financials you were digging into?

Jace’s response came almost immediately.

Just finished the preliminary scan. Nothing obviously suspicious. No sudden wealth, no lifestyle changes that don’t match salaries.

Me: That’s good, right?

Jace: Maybe. But these are computer engineers we’re talking about. They know how to hide digital footprints better than most. Running deeper analysis now, looking for more subtle patterns.

Me: Check Raymond Wilmington specifically. Head of security. Guy’s been hostile since day one.

Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.

Jace: Oh, this is interesting. Your boy Raymond isn’t taking bribes, but he’s got a serious addiction issue.

Me: Drugs? Gambling?

Jace: Warhammer 40k.

I pocketed my phone and moved back toward the kitchen, drawn by the sound of Charlotte’s voice. She’d progressed from muttering to full conversations with her code.

“No, no, no. You can’t cascade there, you beautiful disaster. The quantum state’ll collapse if you—yes! There you go. Play nice with the stabilizer function.”

She talked to the code like it was a living thing, coaxing and scolding in equal measure. Her whole body moved as she worked—shoulders rolling with frustration when something didn’t compile, a little bounce of victory when a function executed properly. She’d kicked off her slippers and had one foot tucked under her, the other tapping against the chair leg in some rhythm only she could hear.

Here in her own space, without everybody staring or me distracting her—although I had to admit, I very much liked that I did—she moved with a fluid grace I hadn’t seen at the lab. No hesitation in her movements, no second-guessing. This was Charlotte unplugged. Unfiltered. Completely in her element.

It was mesmerizing.

She pushed back from the table suddenly, stretching her arms overhead with a groan that did inappropriate things to my concentration. Her T-shirt rode up, revealing a strip of pale skin that made my mouth go dry.

“Inferior recursive loop,” she announced to her laptop, then spun her chair to face the center monitor. “You’re better than that. We both know you’re better than that.”

I looked back down at my phone, trying to wrap my head around what Jace was saying about Raymond Wilmington.

Me: Warhammer, as in the game and books?