Page 17 of Conning Her Dragonkin Boss

“Excuse me, Ser Levain,” I interject smoothly, my voice steady.

The room quiets, and all eyes turning to me.

I feel the weight of Khanner’s attention most of all.

Levain looks at me, slightly annoyed. “Yes?”

I tap the screen, pulling up the corrected figures. “You mentioned a seven percent reduction in distribution costs, but based on the latest numbers, it’s closer to five-point-four percent. The variance is due to last month’s unforeseen supply chain delays, which weren’t factored into your projections.”

Silence.

Then—Levain blinks.

His expression shifts. First to mild irritation. Then realization.

“She’s right,” another executive mutters, pulling up his own screen.

A few others murmur in agreement.

I keep my expression neutral, even as heat floods my skin. I did that. I caught that.

Levain clears his throat, adjusting his tie. “Thank you for catching that, Ms. Adlawan.”

My stomach twists—not with anxiety, but with pride.

I sit back, forcing myself to stay calm. I almost brush it off as luck, but no. It wasn’t luck. It’s me being good at this job. At my job.

I chance a glance at Khanner.

He’s staring at me.

No. He’s studying me.

Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he says, “Good catch.”

Simple words, spoken quietly, but they seem to reverberate in a quiet room.

He’s not the type to hand out unnecessary praise, and I know it. Everyone knows it. So when he gives it—everyone knows it. And most importantly, I know I earned it.

From the corner of my eye, Harla gives me a subtle thumbs-up, confirming my thoughts.

A warmth spreads through me, unexpected and deeply satisfying.

The meeting continues, and I settle back into my role, managing the transitions between speakers, pulling up data as needed, keeping everything running smoothly.

When the final slide concludes and the executives begin packing up, I brace myself for the usual polite but distant acknowledgments.

Instead—

“Excellent work today, Ms. Adlawan.” One of the senior VPs pauses beside me, giving an approving nod.

Another chimes in. “Impressive execution.”

And then—Urul Vormugh.

CEO. Head of the Vormugh family. Titan of industry. An orc’s orc.

He looms a full foot taller than me, tusked and broad, with an undeniable presence. If the conference room is a battlefield of intellect, he is the warlord overseeing it. And yet, when he speaks, his tone is warm.

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