Page 16 of Till Orc Do Us Part

DROKHAZ

I should be able to focus.

The office hums with all the cool precision of a well-oiled machine—glass walls gleaming, brushed metal surfaces untouched by fingerprints or time.

The low buzz of filtered air mixes with the muted click of heels on tile, the occasional polite murmur of assistants moving through the outer ring of desks.

In here, nothing smells of salt. Or lavender. Or old wood.

Only sterilized ambition and very expensive coffee.

I sit at the head of a steel-and-glass conference table. Three monitors glow before me, bathing my skin in cold light. The spreadsheets are immaculate—columns of projected margins, risk analyses, site evaluations. Perfect.

And utterly useless.

Because I cannot stop thinking of the way Rowan Moore looked at me when I walked out.

Eyes storm-bright. Jaw set. Mouth bruised from the kiss we should not have shared.

I rest my elbows on the table, hands steepled, and close my eyes for a beat.

Her scent still lingers if I let it—ink and sugar and storm-soaked skin. Her voice still cuts through the sterile hush of this place.

"You can’t just… do this."

But I did.

And I left.

Because staying would have meant something neither of us was ready to face.

The door hisses open.

I straighten.

Ilyana Stathos sweeps in with her usual precision—heels silent on the polished floor, dark suit tailored within a thread of perfection. Her black hair is scraped into a severe knot, not a strand out of place.

She’s carrying a hardcopy binder—thick and freshly printed.

Without preamble, she sets it on the table before me.

“Final financials for Lowtide Bluffs,” she says crisply. “We need your signature before close of business if we want to stay on schedule.”

I flip the cover open.

Demolition orders. Contractor lists. Site maps stripped of history, showing clean gray placeholders where memory once lived.

The boardwalk—rendered in dotted lines, slated for removal.

I skim faster. The numbers mean nothing right now.

“Profitability projections?” I ask, voice flat.

“Twelve-point-three percent margin increase if we demo fully,” she replies. “Versus significant losses if we attempt partial preservation.”

I close the report.

And I think of Jamie’s cardboard lighthouse.

Of the bench I sketched beneath a shell no developer will ever count.

Of Rowan, standing fierce and bare-eyed beneath the weight of her own stubborn heart.

“You’ve reviewed public sentiment projections?” I ask.

She inclines her head. “We’ve modeled potential PR costs. Manageable—if we proceed quickly and control the narrative.”

I arch a brow. “Control it how?”

“Leverage economic benefits. Emphasize job creation and community revitalization.”

I tap the edge of the binder. “And the people?”

She hesitates.

Ilyana does not hesitate lightly.

“Lowtide is economically fragile,” she says at last. “Sentiment is high. But history shows they will fold under sustained pressure.”

“They will not fold.”

I surprise even myself with the sharpness of the words.

Her gaze sharpens in turn. “With respect, sir—you’ve always prioritized clarity over sentiment. We’ve built this firm on decisive moves, not nostalgia.”

I glance past her, toward the wide glass wall framing the distant skyline.

It looks wrong. Too clean. Too hollow.

I remember the weight of a child against my side in a storm. The way Rowan’s fingers trembled on my skin, as if touching me might undo her.

I meet Ilyana’s gaze again.

“The boardwalk is not merely old wood and rust,” I say quietly.

Her lips thin. “It is also not profitable.”

Silence hums between us.

“You have been distracted,” she adds softly.

Another statement. Not a question.

I lean back, voice cold as iron. “Do you question my leadership?”

“No.” But her mouth is tight. “I question your priorities.”

So do I.

I glance down at the binder again. The crisp gray lines, the empty promises.

And I know, with a clarity that cuts deeper than any blade, that I cannot sign this.

Not now.

Not like this.

I close the binder. Push it aside.

“Delay the demo orders,” I say.

Ilyana’s eyes widen, just slightly. “Sir?—”

“Delay them.”

Her jaw locks. “Your shareholders will not approve of hesitation.”

“They are accustomed to my results,” I reply. “They will wait.”

She exhales through her nose. “Very well.”

She gathers the binder with practiced grace. “But understand—sentiment does not sustain this firm. Steel does.”

I let her words land, but I do not move.

As she turns to leave, her voice softens—just a fraction.

“You taught me not to look back, Drokhaz,” she says. “Be careful you’re not forgetting why.”

The door hisses shut behind her.

And I am left alone with the hum of the monitors, the chill of the air, the taste of memory that will not fade.

I rise, pace to the glass wall.

The city sprawls beneath me—perfect grids, sleek towers gleaming beneath gray skies. But no salt wind stirs here. No laughter echoes across warped planks. No stubborn bookstore stands defiant beneath the weight of progress.

I press a palm to the glass, fingers aching.

"Some things are worth bleeding for."

The words I told her were truer than I knew.

And gods help me—I don’t know how to stop wanting her. Or this place.

I turn from the window.

There is a flight to catch. A promise to break.

Or maybe a promise to keep.

Hours pass.

I bury myself in calls, meetings, reports—anything to still the pull beneath my ribs.

But each time I circle back to the project timeline, my hand hovers over the approval button.

I close the window. Delay it again.

Ilyana will not like it.

I no longer care.

At some point past dusk, when the office quiets and most of the staff has gone, I open my briefcase to retrieve my personal notes.

And there—folded beneath a ledger—is the rough scrap of paper Jamie gave me days ago.

His story.

“The Green Giant.”

I unfold it carefully, the edges soft from his small fingers.

Crayon-sketched at the top—a lopsided orc with too-long arms and a wrench twice his size.

The story reads in crooked, uneven print:

“The Green Giant had strong hands but a kind heart. When the sea got sick and the boardwalk broke, he didn’t fight with fists. He used a wrench and a wish. And he fixed it. And then he smiled.”

No grand speeches.

No profits.

Just a child’s trust in a simple truth.

I stare at the words until they blur.

Slowly, I fold the paper smaller, each crease deliberate.

Then I slip it into the inner pocket of my wallet—behind steel cards and signed contracts.

Where it will stay.

Not because it matters to the firm.

Because it matters to me.

And some tides, I will not resist.