Page 26 of Billionaire Alien Boss Daddy

“Claire,” I start, my heart pounding. But her phone chirps loudly, the alarm cutting through the air. She steps back, glancing at the screen.

“Meeting at city hall,” she says, already moving. “I’m late.”

I let her go, my words catching in my throat. “We’ll talk later,” I say, though I’m not sure she hears me as she grabs her bag and heads for the door.

I watch her leave, the weight of what I almost said lingering in the air. Later. I’ll tell her later.

I walk through the streets of New Orleans, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. My boots hit the ground with a steady rhythm, each step deliberate, each breath measured. The air smells faintly of river water and fried food, a mix that always makes me think of the past—not the future I came from, but the disasters I’ve seen here. Katrina. The black water. The bodies. I shake my head, forcing the memory away. Not today. Today, I have a mission.

The Preservation Resource Center isn’t far from my office, but every block feels like a journey through time. The city’s history is etched into every brick, every wrought-iron balcony. And I’ll be damned if I let the grolgath destroy it again. My jaw tightens as I approach the building, a stately structure with a plaque out front commemorating its place in the city’s story. Too bad the plaque doesn’t mention the grolgath’s role in nearly erasing that story.

Inside, I’m ushered to a long table at the front of the room, a podium standing like a sentinel in the center. I take my seat, nodding to the other speakers. My eyes scan the crowd, looking for any sign of a grolgath agent. So far, nothing. But they’re good at hiding in plain sight, these flame kissers.

The first speaker steps up to the podium, and my gut twists. Ryan Pax. The man I’ve been investigating for months. He’s tall, with a polished charm that’s too perfect to be real. His speech starts generically enough—community, giving back, blah, blah, blah. But then he says it. “The bright flame of change.”

I lean forward in my seat, my hands gripping the edge of the table. That’s Ataxian dogma, straight from the grolgath playbook. My suspicions solidify like concrete. Ryan Pax isn’t just a man. He’s a grolgath. Or at least, he’s working for them.

Ryan finishes his speech with a flourish, and the audience claps politely. He takes his seat, his gray eyes locking with mine. He smiles, cold and knowing, like he’s daring me to call him out. I don’t. Not yet. I give him the same icy smile, my mind racing with plans. If he’s here, it’s not by accident. Whatever the grolgath are planning, it’s happening soon.

The next speaker steps up to the podium, and I almost laugh. Silas Greer. Of course. The man’s face is as plastic as his reputation, his smile as fake as his blonde hair. He launches into a spiel about innovation and opportunity, but I’m not listening. My eyes flick between him and Ryan, the tension in the room thickening like a storm rolling in off the Gulf.

Silas finishes his speech and sits down, his gaze lingering on me just a little too long. I meet his stare, unflinching. Whatever game he’s playing, whatever connections he has to the grolgath, I’ll figure it out. This city—its past, its future—depends on it. And I’ll be damned if I let the flame kissers burn it down again.

The spotlight feels like a noose around my neck as I step up to the podium. The speech in my hand is a masterpiece of banality, so dull it could put a hypercaffeinated Alzhon to sleep. I clear my throat, the microphone squealing in protest.

“New Orleans,” I begin, my voice flat and uninspired, “is a city of resilience. A city of opportunity. A city… of people working together.” I squint at the paper, wondering who at Veritas thought this drivel was a good idea. The crowd stares back, their faces glazed over, and I fight the urge to bolt for the door.

I drone on, my words as exciting as a tax audit, and when I finally finish, the applause is polite but half-hearted. I step away from the podium, relief flooding me. The faster I can get out of here, the better.

The reception is a nightmare of small talk and bland finger foods. I grab a glass of wine, the tartness doing little to improve my mood. I’m scanning the room for an escape route whenheapproaches.

Ryan Pax. His smile is smooth, his gray eyes sharp as a blade. “Simon Karr,” he says, extending a hand. “Enjoyed your speech.”

“Did you?” I tilt my head, my voice low. “I’d say it was forgettable, but that would imply it was memorable.”

He chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Modesty doesn’t suit you.”

I step closer, my hand still gripping his in a vice-like shake. I lean in, my breath hot against his ear. “I know what you are.”

His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. “We all wear masks, don’t we, Simon?” His voice is a whisper, but it cuts like a knife. “Or should I say…Shomun?”

My stomach drops, but I keep my face neutral. “What do you want, Pax?”

He leans back, his eyes glinting. “Oh, I know everything about you. Your favorite music. The brand of motor oil you insist on for your Bugatti. And, of course… who you care about the most.”

My scales itch beneath the image inducer, and my jaw tightens. “If you touch her, you die.”

He chuckles, low and mocking. “Who’s protecting Claire right now?”

The words hit me like a plasma blast to the chest. Before I can think, my fist connects with his jaw. He stumbles back, theatrically clutching his face, his fall more dramatic than necessary.

“Security!” someone shouts, and within seconds, hands are on me, dragging me toward the exit. I could break free—easily—but that’s not the play. Not here.

I’m shoved out the door, the cool night air hitting my face. I pull out my phone, my fingers trembling as I dial Claire’s number. One ring. Two. Voicemail.

“Damn it,” I mutter, shoving the phone back into my pocket. City hall isn’t far. I can run. Ihaveto run.

I take off down the street, my boots slamming against the pavement. The buildings blur past me, the lights of the city dimming as panic claws at my chest. Claire’s face flashes in my mind—her green eyes, her stubborn smile.

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