Bound by Honor *2ND DRAFT*

X

July 1

Malakai POV

Morning settles over the office like a blade in a sheath—quiet, gleaming, ready to cut.

The reports from Easton are lined up neatly on my desk, every page clipped, color-coded, efficient. My kind of order. Security updates follow—routes adjusted, cameras checked, guards rotated. Every detail accounted for. Every weakness sealed.

I flip through the next set of files — Estella's signatures appear more often now. Her notes are bolder, decisions cleaner. She's learning to stand on her own in rooms that used to make her flinch. Good. She's learning to play the game. I just have to make sure she doesn't get burned by it.

A small error catches my eye — a misplaced number in a logistics report. Not big enough to draw blood, but enough to make the wrong person question her. I set the page aside. I'll handle it before anyone else does. She doesn't need vultures circling over scraps.

My phone buzzes once — Easton confirming the next meeting. I answer with a short, "Handled." No more. No less.

Then I glance back at Estella's report. The handwriting's confident now. The kind of confidence that can tempt a person into carelessness if no one reminds them how quickly the floor can vanish beneath them.

I lean back in my chair, tapping the edge of the paper once. If she's going to survive this world, she'll need to be sharper than everyone who smiles at her.

And I'll make damn sure she is.

The conference room hums with quiet tension—the kind that sharpens before a storm. I sit at the far end of the table, silent, observing. Stella stands at the head, poised, collected. There's a calmness to her now—measured, deliberate. The kind that makes people underestimate her right before she proves them wrong.

She starts speaking, and the room shifts. Every word lands clean. Numbers, projections, strategy—she owns every piece of it. When one of the older executives clears his throat to question a detail, she doesn't flinch.

"No," she says, voice steady. "That's outdated data. We've already moved past that projection. Check the second quarter file before you speak next time."

The man blinks, caught off guard. The rest of the table goes silent.

I watch her handle them—confident, unbothered. Not needing backup. It's almost satisfying. Almost.

She moves through the rest of the presentation with precision, no wasted words, no nerves. When she ends, the room takes a collective breath. She doesn't ask if there are questions. She just gathers her papers, nods once, and dismisses the meeting. Like a commander walking off the field after a clean victory.

When the door shuts and it's just us, I lean back in my chair, folding my arms.

"Well done," I say. "You didn't give them room to doubt you."

She glances up, eyes sharp, unreadable. "I learned from the best," she says, and for a moment it almost sounds like a challenge.

I smirk faintly, just enough for her to catch it. "Next time, make them wait before they speak. Control the silence—it's a weapon too."

She tilts her head, lips curving slightly. "Noted."

Evening drapes over the office like a low, quiet threat. The lights are dim, papers scattered across her desk—organized chaos, the way I like to see her working.

I step inside unannounced, holding two coffees. She looks up, startled for a second before she remembers I don't ask permission.

"You forget meals when you're thinking too much," I say, setting the coffee beside her.