Page 97 of Blind Prophet

I’m logging off. Still staying the weekend. I’ll be in touch.

I scroll upwards, reviewing the messages and the evidence Arrow’s tech team found.

“What’s wrong?”

If I’m going to come clean, we shouldn’t be in a bedroom.

“Can we talk?”

“Isn’t that what—” He stops himself. His lips press together, and he angles his head to the side, as if there’s a conversation going on in that head of his. “Yes. We can talk. We can talk about anything you want.”

“Is there a place we can talk that’s…not a bedroom?”

A barely there, sexy smirk flits across his face, but it passes so quickly I’m not positive it existed.

“Is this work-related?”

“Can we talk somewhere secure?” The CIA term slips out before I can stop it. In this world of quantum computing and satellite surveillance, ‘secure’ has layers of meaning, and in Dorian’s house, those layers are particularly complex.

His head jerks back like I’ve slapped him.

“I already told you. No one is monitoring my home.”

“You have a full security staff. They aren’t in the house with you. How do they monitor to ensure you’re safe?”

“The surveillance equipment is on the outside of the house and grounds.” He’s telling the truth about traditional security systems, but Zenith’s quantum-encrypted communications network could theoretically turn any networked device into a listening post. It’s the kind of capability that keeps counterintelligence analysts up at night. “No one could arrive at the house without being picked up. Physically impossible. There’s no need for surveillance inside the house.” His eyebrows close in over the bridge of his nose. “But it’s not only my security team you’re thinking about, is it?”

“Let’s go to your office.” Arrow will be listening. When I address what they are accusing him of, they’ll hear him.

He steps back, gesturing to the hall. I lift my laptop, and cool air nips at my bare legs. His sweats I wore earlier are up in his bedroom. I shouldn’t address the accusations against him without pants on.

“Can you give me a minute?” I ask, closing the laptop.

I run up the stairs, leaving a confused Dorian in my wake. I slip on the sweatpants and sweatshirt I wore earlier. Still his clothes, but they’re better than his dress shirt.

What am I doing? What does it matter what I’m wearing? Why am I uneasy?

The answer is all too clear. There’s a part of me that’s worried he’s guilty. That he’s the one who has instigated these incidents around the globe. He wouldn’t aim to usurp democracy. He’s no made-for-television villain. But he’s dedicated his career to building Zenith. Is he hoping to increase fears so more governments enter into contracts with Zenith? The assumption all along has been that these mini-attacks are tests of the systems in place for a larger-scale incursion. What if the mini-attacks are all he’s planned? What if his ethical boundaries have shifted? His risk tolerance in business has increased since our marriage. The Dorian I knew would never have attempted to corner the global satellite market. But he did, and he succeeded. Where else might those boundaries have moved? In intelligence work, targets almost always believe they’re serving a greater good.

Dorian would never aim to kill millions or destroy the world order, but he’s susceptible to misguided notions. Perhaps he believes fear will drive nations to prioritize defense spending, and thus the world will be more secure.

“Should I come up there?” Footsteps sound on the steps.

“No. I’m coming.”

I round the corner, and he smirks.

“No, unfortunately, you aren’t. But we can fix that.”

He climbs a step, but I point down the stairs.

“We’re going to have that conversation.”

The question is, do I really want Arrow to hear it?

The CIA trained me to compartmentalize, to separate personal feelings from professional judgment. But they also taught me to trust verified intelligence over circumstantial evidence. Arrow’s data points to Dorian, but something feels orchestrated about it—too perfect, like a trail deliberately left for analysts to follow. The kind of false flag operation I used to brief senior officials about.

Where do my loyalties lie? With my employer or my ex-husband?

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