Chapter 44: The Ultimate Teasing
The heavy oak door of the Azure Suite felt like the entrance to an execution chamber. Pete pushed it open, the polished brass knob cool and slick under his sweaty palm. He stepped back into the cavernous room, the air thick with the scent of expensive coffee and unresolved tension. The vast obsidian table reflected the harsh fluorescent lights, making the faces around it look unnaturally pale, sculpted from ice.
Karn stood near the window where Pete had left him, his profile turned. His shoulders seemed slumped, his usual effortless posture replaced by something weary. Defeated? Pete’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird trying to escape the cage of Karn’s borrowed suit. Too long. They talked way too long. What did I miss? Did I screw up Vespera? Did I sound like an idiot?
He forced his feet to move, each step echoing too loudly on the plush carpet. He kept his chin level, his expression schooled into the professional mask Karn had drilled into him. Inside, panic was a live wire, sizzling through his veins. Professional. Calm. You owned the room. Didn’t you? The phantom weight of the leather collar beneath his shirt felt suddenly heavier, tighter.
He stopped near the center of the table, where he’d delivered his pitch. Victoria Vongola rose from her seat at the head. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of polished stone. The other board members watched him, their faces uniformly grim. Henderson, the CFO, looked like he’d swallowed a lemon. Pete’s gut clenched. Disaster. Total disaster.
"Mr. Riverton," Victoria began, her voice crisp, devoid of its earlier warmth. "Thank you for returning. We’ve had a… thorough discussion following your presentation."
Pete swallowed hard, his mouth desert-dry. He managed a small, stiff nod. "Of course, Ms. Vongola."
A heavy silence descended. Pete could hear the faint tick-tick-tick of an unseen clock, the nervous shuffle of a Red Tag assistant’s feet near the door. Karn still hadn’t looked at him. Pete’s mind raced. Stupid. Shouldn't have sent the email without reviewing it with Karn first. Maybe the numbers were off. Did I mispronounce Vespera? Why is Karn so quiet?
Victoria steepled her fingers. "We are all," she stated, her gaze sweeping slowly around the table, landing finally, pointedly, on Pete, "in agreement." She paused again, letting the weight of impending doom settle fully on Pete’s shoulders. He braced himself. Here it comes. "We are all," she repeated, her voice dropping slightly, imbued with a profound, collective sorrow, "deeply disappointed."
The words hit Pete like a physical blow. He felt the blood drain from his face. He locked his knees to keep from swaying. Disappointed. The worst possible word. Worse than angry. It implied failed potential, wasted effort. It cut deeper because it felt personal. He’d poured everything into this. For Karn. For the chance. He risked a glance at Karn. His friend’s head was bowed, his jaw clenched tight. Sad. He looks sad. Because I failed him.
Pete’s carefully constructed professional facade began to crack. A tremor started in his hands, hidden deep within the pockets of Karn’s suit trousers. He felt the familiar, humiliating prickle of heat behind his eyes and fought it furiously. Not here. Not now. Not in Karn’s suit.
Victoria watched him, her flinty eyes seeming to note every micro-expression of despair flickering across his face. She took a slow breath, drawing out the agony. "Yes," she sighed, the sound heavy with regret. "Profoundly disappointed…"
Pete squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second. Breathe. Just breathe. He could feel the phantom tug of bunny ears threatening to manifest atop his head. The absurd urge to kneel, to submit to the judgment, warred violently with the desperate need to remain standing.
"...that Titan," Victoria continued, her voice suddenly shifting, sharpening, cutting through the thick atmosphere like a knife, "kept you hidden under a goddamn rock for so long!"
Pete’s eyes snapped open. What?
A grin, wide and utterly predatory, split Victoria’s previously stern face. Around the table, the grim masks dissolved into broad smiles, chuckles, outright laughter. Henderson slammed a hand on the obsidian surface, guffawing. "Had ya going, son! Hook, line, and sinker!" he wheezed.
Karn finally turned. He wasn’t sad. He was beaming, his earlier posture pure theater. He winked, a flash of pure, unadulterated mischief in his eyes. His hand, hidden from the others, gave a tiny, frantic thumbs-up aimed solely at Pete.
Pete stood frozen, his brain short-circuiting. Disbelief warred with overwhelming relief, then a surge of bewildered indignation. They’d… they’d pranked him? After that presentation? After he’d just bared Nova Forge’s financial aorta on the table?
Victoria laughed, a rich, warm sound utterly unlike her CEO chime. "Oh, the look on your face, Riverton! Priceless! That was for making Henderson here need a new shirt." She gestured to the CFO, who was indeed mopping his brow with a handkerchief, still chuckling. "He nearly vaporized during the Vespera part. Thought he was going to have to sell his yacht."
"Damn near," Henderson confirmed, grinning now. "Kid, you have a future in corporate terrorism. Brilliant. Utterly terrifying, but brilliant."
Karn strode forward, clapping Pete on the shoulder, the impact jolting him out of his stunned paralysis. "Told you, Victoria. Once-in-a-decade talent. And now," he added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur audible only to Pete, "officially terrifying to CEOs."
Pete blinked, the reality sinking in. The disappointment had been an act. A cruel, elaborate, hilarious (to them) act. The tension holding him rigid snapped, replaced by a wave of giddy, almost hysterical relief mixed with residual panic. He managed a shaky, bewildered smile. "You… you all agreed? The consolidation?"
"Agreed?" Victoria scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. "After that performance? After seeing what Titan actually has lurking in its Red Tag ranks? Consider it signed, sealed, and delivered. Thursday is a formality. We just needed to see how you handled pressure… and apparently, how well you took a joke." Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "You passed both. Though you might want to sit down before you fall down. You look a little green."
Karn steered Pete towards an empty chair, pushing him gently into it. "Sit, farm boy. Let your knees have a break. You earned it." He pulled out the chair beside him, not sitting yet, radiating triumphant energy.
As Pete sank into the plush leather, feeling the tremors in his legs finally subside, Victoria snapped her fingers. One of the Red Tag assistants near the door, previously frozen, sprang into action. He opened a concealed cabinet, revealing a chilled bottle of vintage champagne and flutes.
"Pop that cork, Jenkins!" Victoria commanded. "We’re celebrating the birth of a legend… and giving Mr. Riverton something stronger than coffee to steady his nerves after we scared the living daylights out of him!"
The loud POP of the cork echoed in the suite. Foam fizzed over the assistant’s gloved hands as he expertly poured. Flutes were passed around, even to the grim-faced assistants who now wore small, tight smiles. Karn took two flutes, handing one to Pete.
Victoria raised her glass, the bubbles catching the cold light. "To Pete Riverton," she announced, her voice ringing clearly. "The man who saved Henderson’s yacht, gave Vespera nightmares, and proved Titan has been criminally stupid. May your points be restored, your promotions be swift, and may you never have to wear a suit two sizes too big ever again… unless you want to."
Laughter rippled around the table. Glasses clinked. "To Riverton!" Henderson boomed.
Pete took a hesitant sip of the champagne. It was crisp, dry, expensive. The bubbles fizzed on his tongue, a counterpoint to the lingering adrenaline sourness in his mouth. He looked around at the smiling faces – powerful, intimidating people who had just collectively decided he was valuable. Then his gaze landed on Karn, who was watching him with open, fierce pride, raising his own glass in a silent salute.
The absurdity, the whiplash from terror to triumph, the sheer relief… it hit him all at once. A shaky laugh escaped Pete, surprising even himself. He took another, deeper gulp of the champagne, feeling warmth spread through him, melting the last of the cold dread. He caught Karn’s eye again.
"Steak," Pete mumbled, the word thick but clear enough. "You still owe me a steak. The size of my head." His stomach growled audibly, punctuating the request.
Karn’s laugh was loud and genuine. "Right after this, Pete. Biggest steak in the city. You deserve it." He clinked his glass against Pete’s again, the sound a tiny, sparkling seal on a day of impossible victories and expertly executed practical terror. The leather collar around Pete’s neck, hidden beneath the crisp white cotton, felt suddenly less like a weight and more like a secret, grounding anchor in the dizzying whirlwind of his ascent. Friday couldn't come soon enough.
Friday couldn't come soon enough. The celebratory champagne buzz still hummed pleasantly in Pete’s veins as the sleek, impossibly quiet elevator whisked Karn, Pete, and the Nova Forge executives down from the Azure Suite. Victoria Vongola had commandeered the private dining room at 'Citron Vert,' a restaurant so exclusive Pete hadn't even known its name ten minutes ago. Plush velvet banquettes, soft candlelight, and the low murmur of discreet conversation replaced the conference room's starkness. The air smelled of roasting garlic, expensive leather, and victory.
Pete sat wedged between Karn and Henderson, the CFO who now regarded him with a mix of lingering terror and profound gratitude. Waiters materialized, pouring rich red wine and placing plates piled high with food that looked like art. Pete stared at the sheer abundance – seared scallops glistening, tenderloin slices fanned perfectly, vegetables carved into intricate shapes. "This… this is too much," he stammered, overwhelmed. "Back home, celebratin' meant Ma's meatloaf."
"Consider this an upgrade, son," Henderson chuckled, clapping Pete on the back, making him nearly face-plant into his scallops. "After you saved my hide – and my boat – least we can do is feed you properly. Eat!"
Pete didn’t need telling twice. He ate with the focused intensity of someone who usually subsisted on vending machine sandwiches and cafeteria mystery meat, savoring every bite. The conversation flowed easily, Karn effortlessly steering it, drawing Pete in with questions about the Vespera strategy details, letting him shine. Laughter erupted frequently, mostly at Pete’s expense as he recounted innocent misunderstandings about city life or corporate jargon. "Thought a 'synergy meeting' meant everyone had to exercise together," he mumbled sheepishly after a sip of wine, prompting another round of guffaws. Victoria watched him, her expression softening from sharp assessment to genuine amusement.
As dessert arrived – individual chocolate soufflés that rose majestically – a comfortable silence settled. Pete looked around the table at the powerful, satisfied faces. The warmth in his chest wasn't just the wine. He pushed his plate away slightly, cleared his throat. All eyes turned to him. Vongola... everyone," he began, his voice thick. He wiped his mouth with the ridiculously thick napkin, his eyes suddenly bright. "I just... I gotta say somethin'." He took a shaky breath. "Yesterday mornin’, I woke up terrified. Scared I’d screw up Karn’s suit, scared I’d freeze, scared I’d let everyone down... again." A tear escaped, tracing a path down his cheek. He swiped at it impatiently. "I never... never imagined standin' in front of folks like you. Makin' a pitch. Makin' a difference. Bein' listened to. And then... actually... succeedin'?" His voice cracked completely then, a sob escaping. More tears followed, earnest, unashamed. "Thank you," he managed, looking at Karn, then Victoria, then around the table. "Just... thank you for givin' me the chance. Didn't know it was possible."
His raw vulnerability hung in the candlelit air. It was profoundly touching, utterly genuine. The executives exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from surprise to deep appreciation. They saw the funny, clumsy kid who dropped forks and misunderstood meetings, but they also saw the brilliant strategist who’d dissected their company with surgical precision – and now, this overwhelming gratitude. It was disarming. Henderson sniffed loudly, pretending to check his soufflé. Victoria’s sharp eyes softened further, misting slightly. "Oh, dear boy," she murmured.
Then, the collective urge to gently torment him became irresistible. Karn gave Victoria a barely perceptible nod, a glint in his eye. "Pete," Karn said smoothly, leaning in with mock concern, "your nose." He tapped his own. Pete instantly raised his napkin, scrubbing frantically at his nose, mortified. "Got it?" Karn asked innocently. Pete lowered the napkin, bewildered. "Was nothin' there, was there?" The table erupted in suppressed giggles. Pete flushed crimson, realizing he’d been had. "Aw, Karn!"
"Quick, Pete!" Henderson barked suddenly, pointing dramatically past Pete’s shoulder. "Is that a mouse? Under the chair!" Pete yelped, half-leaping out of his seat, craning his neck wildly. "Where?!" He spun, nearly knocking over a water glass. Laughter, louder this time, filled the room. "Gotcha again, farm boy!" Henderson roared, slapping the table.
Victoria watched Pete’s flustered attempts to compose himself, his eyes still slightly red-rimmed from his emotional speech. As he leaned forward to pick up the napkin he’d dropped during his mouse-hunt, the crisp collar of Karn’s borrowed shirt shifted. The low candlelight caught the edge of something dark and smooth beneath, nestled against his throat. Her sharp eyes narrowed. It was polished leather. And engraved on the small, sturdy buckle, clear as day: Karn Thorne.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Victoria’s face. She leaned back, swirling her wine, her gaze flicking from the now-visible collar to Karn, who was watching Pete with soft, amused affection. "Karn, darling," she said, her voice cutting through the residual laughter. She pointed a perfectly manicured finger towards Pete’s throat. "Is that," she paused, her smile turning distinctly feline, "the reason you were so terribly uninterested in my daughter’s overtures last summer? Claimed you were 'otherwise engaged'?"
The room fell instantly, breathlessly silent. All eyes snapped to Karn. Pete froze mid-reach for his water glass, his hand hovering in the air, realization dawning slowly, horribly, about what had just been exposed. His ears burned.
Karn didn't miss a beat. He met Victoria’s gaze directly, a broad, unapologetic grin spreading across his face, radiating pure, cheerful defiance. "Victoria," he announced, his voice warm and clear, cutting through the stunned silence, "it absolutely is." He reached out and gave Pete’s shoulder a firm, grounding squeeze. Pete sank back into his chair, face flaming, heart pounding, the leather collar suddenly feeling like it was lit from within.
The silence in the private dining room was absolute, thick as the restaurant’s velvety curtains. Pete’s face burned, the heat radiating from his neck where Karn’s collar suddenly felt like a branding iron. Sweat prickled beneath the borrowed suit jacket. Karn’s hand, still resting on his shoulder, felt like the only anchor in a world tilting violently. Victoria’s knowing smile held Pete pinned, while the other Nova Forge executives swiveled their heads, baffled glances bouncing between Karn, Pete, and their CEO. Henderson squinted, trying to decipher the unspoken current. "Your daughter, Vic?" he rumbled, confusion wrinkling his brow. "What's that got to do with…?" His voice trailed off as he finally followed Victoria’s pointed gaze, landing squarely on the sliver of dark leather now visible at Pete’s throat. Realization dawned slowly on the others – the CFO, the VPs. A murmur rippled through them, not unkind, but thick with sudden, awkward comprehension.
Pete instinctively grabbed his collar, trying to yank the stiff cotton shirt higher. "It's… it's not…" he stammered, his voice a strained whisper. Karn’s grip tightened, a silent command to stop. "Breathe, Pete," Karn murmured under his breath, his public grin unwavering but his eyes intense on Pete's.
Victoria chuckled, a low, smoky sound. "Oh, don't be shy, darling! It's rather charming. Shows dedication." She raised her champagne flute again, her gaze sweeping the table. "Seems Karn’s been busy mentoring in… unconventional ways. Come now, Mr. Riverton! Lighten up! We’re celebrating you!" She gestured expansively. "After that Vespera annihilation and making Henderson weep? You deserve to cut loose!" Her eyes twinkled with mischief. "Show us the farm boy spirit! Let’s see the man behind the strategy! Off with the jacket, at least! You must be sweltering!"
The other executives, now catching Victoria’s playful, slightly inebriated mood and utterly missing the deeper significance she’d grasped, eagerly seized the distraction. "Yes! Off with it, Riverton!" Henderson boomed, thumping the table, his earlier awkwardness forgotten in the boozy haze of celebration. "Show us the guns that slayed Vespera!" another VP chimed in, chuckling. "Give us a twirl!" called a third, leaning back with a grin. The pressure mounted, jovial but insistent. Glasses were raised, expectant faces turned towards Pete. Celebration demanded participation.
Pete’s panic receded under a sudden, potent wave of dizziness. The champagne, the wine, the sheer emotional whiplash of the day – terror, triumph, exposure – hit him like a mallet. The room blurred slightly at the edges. The cheers sounded distant yet overwhelming. He blinked, trying to focus on Karn, but Karn’s face swam in his vision. The command – off with the jacket – echoed. His Red Tag conditioning, the ingrained reflex to obey direct commands from superiors, especially in social pressure cookers, surged through the alcohol fog. The phantom weight of bunny ears felt suddenly heavy. He hiccuped. "Yesss… Master?" he slurred, confusion and ingrained obedience tangling his tongue. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, chair scraping loudly.
With clumsy determination, Pete wrestled with Karn’s suit jacket. Buttons proved a challenge; he fumbled, swaying slightly. Finally, he yanked it off one shoulder, then the other, letting the expensive wool puddle unceremoniously on the plush carpet behind his chair. A ragged cheer went up. Encouraged, emboldened by the alcohol and the roar of approval, Pete grinned lopsidedly. His fingers, thick and uncoordinated, went to the buttons of the crisp white shirt. Karn started to rise, a hand outstretched. "Pete, wait–"
Too late. Pete ripped the shirt open. Buttons flew like tiny pearls, pinging off plates and glasses. He shrugged out of the shirt, letting it join the jacket on the floor. He stood there in the candlelit opulence of Citron Vert’s private dining room, bare-chested, breathing heavily. And there it was, impossible to miss: the wide band of polished black leather encircling his throat. The sturdy buckle gleamed, cold and definitive in the warm light. Engraved in bold, clear script: Karn Thorne.
The reaction was instantaneous and deafening. Nova Forge erupted. Not in shock, but in uproarious, delighted cheering. Glasses were banged on the table. Henderson whooped. "THORNE! You dog!" Victoria threw her head back and laughed, a rich, full-bodied sound of pure amusement. "I knew it! Oh, Karn, you dark horse!" They saw the collar not as a mark of submission, but as a hilarious, outrageous symbol of Karn's hidden life and Pete's unexpected wild streak. They saw the brilliant strategist revealed as Karn’s… something gloriously scandalous.
Pete, fueled by the deafening approval and the champagne tsunami in his veins, beamed drunkenly. The cheers were permission. The command was clear: celebrate. Serve. His hands dropped to his belt buckle. Fingers fumbled with the clasp. "Yessir…" he mumbled, focused intently on the task. The belt gave way. He shoved Karn’s fine wool trousers down over his hips. They crumpled around his ankles, leaving him standing in just a pair of plain white briefs against the backdrop of velvet banquettes and shocked silence that had abruptly replaced the cheering.
Henderson, closest to Pete, lunged. Not playfully. He grabbed Pete’s wrists just as Pete’s thumbs hooked into the waistband of the briefs. "Whoa there, son! Easy! Easy!" Henderson barked, his voice laced with genuine alarm, hauling Pete back. "That’s quite enough showing off for one night! Let's keep some mystery, eh?"
The abrupt halt, the physical restraint, shattered Pete’s drunken momentum. Confusion warred with a sudden, crushing wave of failure. He looked down at Henderson’s hands on his wrists, then at his own near-nakedness, the trousers around his ankles, the collar stark on his throat. The reality of what he’d almost done, the humiliating exposure, crashed over him. The ingrained Red Tag terror of failing, of disobeying or obeying incorrectly, of disappointing authority, surged up, amplified a thousandfold by alcohol and exhaustion. His legs buckled. Not towards Henderson, but towards Karn.
He dropped heavily to his knees on the thick carpet, right at Karn’s feet. The tears he’d held back earlier, mixed with the happy ones from his speech, burst forth in great, shuddering sobs. He pressed his forehead against Karn’s shin, the cool wool of Karn’s trousers against his burning skin. "S-sorry, Master! So-sorry!" he choked out, his voice thick with snot and despair. "C-couldn't… couldn't do it! Failed! F-failed to serve… s-serve the executives!" Sobs wracked his bare shoulders. "D-didn't… didn't finish stripping! Failed my duty! P-please…" He clung to Karn’s leg, utterly broken by the perceived transgression, the weight of years of conditioning and the impossible expectations crashing down.
The Nova Forge executives stared, momentarily frozen. Then, understanding – or rather, misunderstanding utterly – bloomed. They saw only the hilarious spectacle of the brilliant, terrifying Vespera-slayer reduced to a drunken, sobbing mess trying to strip for them and failing spectacularly. The sheer absurdity of it, the perfect capstone to the bizarre, triumphant evening, was irresistible. Laughter erupted again, louder than before, warm and inclusive. Not mocking cruelty, but the kind of laughter reserved for a beloved friend who’s hilariously, catastrophically drunk. "Oh, Riverton!" Henderson wheezed, wiping his eyes. "You absolute legend!" Victoria was practically crying with mirth. "Failed to serve? Darling, you served us the most entertaining dinner show imaginable!"
Karn crouched swiftly, his face a mask of concern cutting through his own shock. He ignored the laughter. His hands went to Pete’s bare shoulders, firm but gentle. "Pete," he said, his voice low and urgent beneath the din. "Look at me. Pete." Pete lifted his tear-streaked face, eyes wide and unfocused, shimmering with utter devastation. "You didn’t fail," Karn stated, his gaze locked onto Pete’s. "You were brilliant. All day. You won. You are winning. The only thing you need to do now is breathe." He pulled a pristine handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it into Pete’s shaking hand. Around them, the laughter softened into affectionate chuckles, the Nova Forge team watching the tender, incongruous moment between them and his drunken, half-naked, brilliant, and utterly shattered strategist, the engraved collar glinting in the candlelight.