Justice of the Supreme War God

Chapter 26: Done Deal PART 2

He reached Marcus and extended his hand with both arms — the full, two-handed grip of a man expressing something that a single handshake couldn't adequately convey. He pumped it twice, then again, his composure replaced by the barely-contained energy of someone who has just received news they have been waiting three years to receive.

"Mr. Hayes," Reynolds said, and his voice had a quality in it that hadn't been there thirty seconds ago. "It's a done deal." He pumped the hand again. "Morrison Accounting Group has our partnership. Full terms, as originally proposed." He was smiling with the unguarded, unstudied expression of a man who had forgotten for a moment that he was in a professional setting. "And an Iron Hands introduction —" he stopped himself, shook his head once. "This is — yes. Yes. We have a deal."

The conference room was absolutely silent.

Liam Steel sat in his chair.

He looked at Reynolds's face. He looked at Reynolds's two-handed grip around Marcus's hand. He looked at the unsigned Steel Holdings contract on the table in front of him, which had been thirty seconds away from being finalized and was now apparently irrelevant.

His mouth was open.

The Steel Holdings attorneys had no expression at all — the careful, professional blankness of people who have been paid to be useful and have suddenly found themselves in a room where their usefulness has expired.

Liam looked at Marcus.

Marcus received Reynolds's handshake with a slight nod and the same composed, unhurried expression he had walked in with.

He didn't look at Liam.

He didn't need to.

The hospital room was quiet in the late afternoon.

Claire arrived at four thirty with the small leather case she brought every evening — Diana's skincare tray, arranged with the precise, consistent order that her employer required and had required for the three years Claire had been managing the household. She set it on the bedside table, unpacked it item by item, and began the routine with the efficiency of long practice.

Diana watched the ceiling with the particular stillness of a person whose body has been forcibly rested and whose mind has not received the same instruction.

"The toner first," Diana said, without looking.

"Yes, ma'am."

The routine proceeded in its usual sequence. Claire worked without commentary, which was one of the qualities Diana had valued enough to retain her for three years.

After the toner, Diana turned her head and looked at the tray.

She looked at the small glass jar without a label.

"That one," Diana said.

"Ma'am?"

"That jar." Diana nodded toward it. "I used it two nights ago. Before the — before I came in." She paused. "The spots on my cheek."

Claire's hands stilled for a fraction of a second that she immediately corrected.

"Ma'am?"

"They're gone," Diana said. Her voice was factual. Reporting a finding. "Completely. I noticed this morning." She looked at the jar. "What's in it?"

Claire picked it up. Turned it over. Set it down. The internal calculation happening behind her face was brief and intense and invisible to anyone who wasn't looking for it, which Diana was.

"I put it together," Claire said. "A few natural ingredients. Calendula, mostly. Rosemary." She kept her voice even. "I'd read about it. For that type of discoloration."

Diana studied her for a moment.

Claire met her gaze with the practiced steadiness of a woman who had been managing households long enough to know when to hold a position.

"It worked," Diana said finally.

"I'm glad, ma'am."

"I want more of it." Diana turned back to the ceiling. "Whatever the formula is. I want it reproduced. The same concentration." She paused. "It's better than anything Sophie's sourced from the usual suppliers."

"I'll see what I can do," Claire said carefully.

"Not see what you can do," Diana said. "Do it."

"Yes, ma'am."

Claire finished the routine with steady hands and packed the tray with the same precise order she'd arrived with, and did not look at the small glass jar again, and did not say anything else about where it had come from.

She collected the case.

She walked to the door.

"Claire."

She stopped.

"Thank you," Diana said.

It was said to the ceiling, without inflection, in the same tone Diana Morrison used for most things — clipped and direct and not particularly warm.

But it was said.

Claire went through the door and stood in the corridor for a moment with the leather case under her arm, and permitted herself one small, private expression before she arranged her face back into its professional configuration and went to find the elevator.