Page 56
Jealousy pricks under my skin so fast it shocks me.
I do not like strangers making her laugh within five minutes of meeting her. I do not like the ease of it. I do not like the way she looks at him with open interest.
Brox shifts beside her, his shoulders tightening. I don’t need to look at him to know he feels something similar.
“Any weapons training?” I ask, a fraction sharper than before.
“Yes,” Shiaou replies, unfazed. “Handguns, standard rifles. I prefer non-lethal methods when possible. Anyone reaching this floor has already passed multiple layers of security. My purpose is to complement that, not replace it.”
He glances briefly at Lana, then back at us.
“You wish for someone who can manage the domestic environment, read a room, guide guests, and stand between you and a threat if necessary,” he says. “I can do that.”
Lana tilts her head.
“You read people well?” she asks.
He meets her eyes.
“I have to,” he answers. “It is part of surviving in other people’s homes.”
She smiles again, more relaxed now.
“One more question,” she says, and I have the urge to roll my eyes at her. This is my interview, not hers.
He nods. “Of course.”
“How would you handle it if someone kept sneaking into the kitchen at three in the morning to eat cold pizza?” she asks. “Hypothetically.”
She shoots me a sideways look.
He considers her question seriously.
“I would make sure fresh food is available in a visible place at decent hours,” he says. “Then I would pretend not to notice the midnight pizza.”
She snorts. I fight the urge to scowl.
He’s good. Smooth. Adaptable. Knows how to defuse her mood without overstepping.
“Alright,” I say, cutting through before she adopts him as a long-lost family. “That’s enough.”
He inclines his head. “Of course, sir.”
“You’ll wait downstairs,” I say. “Sol will inform you of our decision.”
“Yes.” He stands smoothly, offers a small bow of his head to Lana. “Miss. Lana.”
“Shiaou Lin,” she replies.
He turns, and heads for the elevator. His steps are quiet, controlled. I watch him enter, and the moment he is gone, I exhale through my nose, shaking my head.
“No,” I retort.
Brox looks at me. “No, what?”
“He’s not right,” I answer, irritated with how petty that sounds even inside my own head.
Lana blinks. “If what you said is true, and he was here to interview for Greta’s replacement, then he’s perfect. He cooks, cleans, fights, stocks up, does laundry, and doesn’t talk too much.”
