Chapter 91: Chapter 91: The Company Dinner 2

“YOU TOLD THEM THAT?” Grayson managed finally, each word measured against the tight coil of panic in his chest.

Mailah shrugged with breezy, infuriating confidence. “Yeah. They deserve to celebrate something. You survived seven days without turning Jonathan from logistics into a puddle on the conference-room floor. That’s worth a cake.”

He could have argued that seven days was a statistical blip, an anomaly propped up by Dr. Morrison’s intermittent elixirs and a ridiculous jar with bills rattling in it.

Instead he found himself saying, “Very well. Eight o’clock.”

Her grin was victorious. “Perfect. Dress code: business—less threatening.”

Two hours later, Grayson stood outside Rosario’s private dining room, straightening his tie for the fifth time in as many minutes.

The familiar weight of his tailored suit felt like armor, but even that comfort was undermined by the knowledge that his employees were already inside, probably speculating about his mental state and wondering if their notoriously terrifying CEO had finally snapped.

“You’re doing it again,” Mailah observed, appearing at his elbow with the silent grace that never failed to unsettle him.

“Doing what?”

“Looking like you’re about to face a firing squad instead of twelve people who depend on you for their paychecks.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from his lapel, the casual intimacy of the gesture sending electricity through him. “They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

“That’s what I’m counting on.”

“That’s what you’re giving up.” Her hand lingered against his chest, fingers splayed over his heart. “Tonight, you’re just Grayson. Not the CEO, not the demon, just… you.”

She pushed open the door before he could voice any more objections, and suddenly they were inside, surrounded by the soft murmur of conversation that died the instant his employees caught sight of him.

The private dining room at Rosario’s smelled of lemon oil and roast garlic, a warm, human scent that made Grayson’s skin feel oddly raw.

The table was set in soft candlelight; the staff had arranged small centerpieces—succulents, which Mailah had insisted were “low maintenance but high morale.”

He had not thought to be charmed by succulents before tonight.

Twelve faces turned toward him with varying degrees of surprise, curiosity, and barely concealed terror.

Janet from accounting actually dropped her breadstick.

“Good evening,” Grayson managed, his voice carrying just enough of his usual authority to make Sarah from HR straighten in her chair.

“Mr. Ashford!” Mark from shipping jumped to his feet so quickly he nearly knocked over his water glass. “We weren’t sure you were actually coming.”

“Why wouldn’t I come?” Grayson asked, genuinely puzzled by the assumption.

The silence that followed was so complete he could hear the soft jazz playing through the restaurant’s sound system.

His employees exchanged glances loaded with meaning he couldn’t decipher, and he felt the familiar prickle of predatory instincts trying to analyze the pack dynamics at play.

“Because,” Janet said carefully, “you’ve never attended a company social event before. In the five years I’ve worked for you.”

Grayson swallowed a sound that he told himself was not a growl.

He had spent decades learning to be a presence that commanded rooms, but never quite like this.

Tonight, the room was his to inhabit, yes—but in a different register.

Instead of the cold stillness he’d worn like armor for centuries, he had to project warmth, interest, attention. He had to be not the mountain but the landscape: approachable, steady, containing.

“Well,” he said, settling into the chair Mailah had somehow maneuvered him toward, “perhaps it’s time I started.”

The words seemed to ripple through the room, and he caught sight of several surprised smiles before his employees remembered they were supposed to be intimidated by his presence.

Mailah slid into the seat to his left as if she belonged there, her shoulder brushing his.

Her hand found his under the table, a small, secret holding that steadied him.

The contact was mundane—skin to skin—but it kept the demon in him from leaning toward something darker.

He liked the way her fingers fit in his. He liked the ordinary intimacy of it. That might have been the point of everything she’d been attempting: to anchor him in small, human things.

“So,” Mailah said brightly, addressing the table with the confidence of someone who had never met a social situation she couldn’t navigate, “who wants to tell Mr. Ashford about the wedding planning drama that’s been keeping everyone entertained this week?”

“Oh God,” Mark groaned, his face flushing red. “You didn’t.”

“She absolutely did,” Sarah confirmed with barely suppressed glee. “Mark has been asking everyone’s opinion about centerpieces for three days straight.”

Grayson found himself genuinely curious despite his better judgment. “Centerpieces?”

“My fiancée wants orchids,” Mark explained, his nervousness making him speak faster than usual. “But my mother insists on roses because they’re traditional, and her mother thinks we should do succulents because they’re trendy, and honestly, sir, I’m starting to think we should just elope.”

The frustrated desperation in the younger man’s voice was so familiar—the exhaustion of trying to balance competing demands and impossible expectations—that Grayson felt an unexpected surge of sympathy.

“What do you want?” he asked, then watched in fascination as Mark’s eyes went wide with what appeared to be genuine terror.

“Sir?” Mark squeaked, his voice climbing an octave.

“It’s your wedding,” Grayson clarified, ignoring the way half the table seemed to lean away from him despite his attempt at gentleness. “What do you and your fiancée actually want, without considering everyone else’s opinions?”

Mark blinked rapidly, clearly struggling to process the concept that his terrifying CEO was asking him a personal question that wasn’t a prelude to termination.

“We… well, we both love those little white flowers. Baby’s breath? But everyone says they’re too simple and cheap-looking and that we’ll regret it in photos and—” He caught himself mid-ramble, clamping his mouth shut as though he’d just revealed state secrets.

Grayson considered this, aware that the entire table was watching the exchange with the horrified fascination of people witnessing a train wreck in slow motion. Tom from IT had actually stopped breathing.

“Simple doesn’t mean inferior,” he said finally, pitching his voice as carefully as he would during a delicate business negotiation.

The silence that followed was so profound that the sound of someone’s stomach rumbling—definitely Tom this time—was clearly audible.

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