Chapter 187. Tortured Loyalties

Elara’s confession was a cracked window into the consortium’s mind. They weren't just data miners; they were strategists of the soul, and their timeline had just snapped into sharp, terrifying focus.

After her initial breakdown, she was given water, a blanket, and a moment of deceptive calm. Sabatine conducted the deeper interrogation, not with threats, but with a relentless, quiet logic that was somehow more frightening. He sat across from her in the lodge’s cellar, the bare bulb casting long shadows. Anton observed from a corner, a silent, grim presence.

“The data you collected,” Sabatine said, his voice devoid of accusation, a scientist discussing specimens. “It wasn't for market research. It was for a psychological profile. A weapon. You understand that now.”

Elara nodded, her eyes wide, fixed on his hands as if they might hold her salvation or damnation. “I didn't know… I swear.”

“We know. But you can help correct the error.” He leaned forward slightly. “The drive-by. The collection. Did the frequency change recently? After a specific event?”

She thought, her brow furrowed. “Yes. After… after the news about the big explosion in London. The Rogers building. The next pick-up was urgent. The driver was… agitated. He told me to be extra careful, that the ‘project’ was accelerating.”

The bomb. The consortium had moved from surveillance to active measures, and their intelligence gathering had intensified in response.

“And after that?” Sabatine pressed. “Any specific instructions? Any mention of a deadline? An event?”

Elara’s eyes darted, searching her memory. She was desperate to be useful, to trade information for mercy. “The doctor… the last time the car went to her clinic, the driver came back and told me the ‘subject’s calendar’ was the new priority. That… the ‘window’ was the summit.”

Sabatine went very still. “What summit?”

“I don’t know! He didn’t say. But he was muttering about Geneva. About not letting him take the stage.”

Anton stirred in the shadows. His voice, when it came, was like gravel. “The Global Tech Security Summit. In Geneva. It’s in nine days. I’m giving the keynote on post-blackout resilience and the new Aegis-Cypher 2.0 protocols.” He stepped into the light, his face pale. “It’s the most public stage imaginable. It’s where I was going to announce the company’s rebirth, to expose The Curators’ playbook using the data we took from The Vault. It’s where I prove we’re not just alive, but stronger.”

The pieces slammed together. The consortium’s new objective wasn't just to destroy Anton’s company or punish him. It was to silence him. Permanently. Before he could stand before the world’s most powerful tech leaders, finance ministers, and intelligence heads and lay bare their entire operation. His keynote was a loaded gun pointed at their legitimacy. They couldn't allow him to take the stage.

“They want you eliminated before the summit,” Sabatine stated, the words dropping into the cold cellar air like stones. The fear he’d been managing, the operative’s cool control, tightened into a vise around his own heart. This wasn't a vague threat. It was a deadline. Nine days.

Elara confirmed it with a trembling nod. “The driver… he said ‘the portrait is complete. The intervention must happen before the subject speaks.’ That’s all I heard.”

Intervention. A clean, clinical word for assassination.

Sabatine dismissed Elara, instructing Leon to keep her secure but comfortable. The moment the cellar door closed, the full weight of the intelligence crashed over them. The cozy lodge, their latest hiding place, felt like a shrinking trap.

“They have a complete profile,” Anton said, pacing the small space. “They know how I think, how I react under pressure, my habits, my… my relationship with you. They’ll use it all to get to me. They won’t send a hired gun. They’ll engineer a scenario. An accident that looks like stress, a collapse that looks like guilt, a…” He stopped, his gaze finding Sabatine’s. “They’ll use you. You’re my greatest strength, and they’ve just identified you as my primary vulnerability.”

Sabatine felt the truth of it like a physical blow. The Portraitist, Dr. Reinhart, had undoubtedly noted the depth of their bond. She would have seen it in the way they moved around each other, in the silent communications, in the protective instincts. In the world of psychological warfare, a love that strong wasn't a shield; it was a lever. They could threaten Sabatine to manipulate Anton. Or worse, they could make it look like Sabatine was the threat—a jealous lover, a destabilizing influence, finally snapping.

The fear that had been a constant, low-grade hum since the first attack now spiked into a sharp, clarifying terror. It wasn't fear for himself. It was the icy, paralyzing fear of being the instrument of Anton’s death. Of failing in the one duty that truly mattered.

“We cancel,” Sabatine said, the words torn from him. “You don’t go to Geneva. You issue a statement. You go to the ground indefinitely.”

Anton shook his head, a stubborn, furious light in his eyes. “No. That’s exactly what they want. They want me silenced, hiding. If I don’t take that stage, I surrender the narrative forever. The company’s recovery hinges on that keynote—on showing we’re unbroken. The legal cases against The Curators need the spectacle of that exposure. If I back down, they win without firing a shot.”

“They’ll fire a shot, Anton!” Sabatine’s control cracked, his voice rising. “A very real one! Or they’ll stage a heart attack, or a suicide, or frame me for your murder! They have a blueprint of us! They know which buttons to press!”

“Then we rewrite the blueprint!” Anton shot back, closing the distance between them. He gripped Sabatine’s shoulders, his fingers digging in. “You’re the one who said our love is a fortress they don’t understand. Prove it. We don’t run. We use their knowledge against them. We know they’re watching. We know they’re planning for the summit. So we plan for their plan.”

The logic was sound, maddeningly so. But it required walking directly into the sniper’s sight. It required using their bond as bait in the deadliest trap imaginable.

Sabatine’s loyalty, once a simple, professional contract, was now a tortured, all-consuming thing. His duty was to protect Anton. But did that mean physically shielding him from a bullet, or did it mean standing with him as he walked into the line of fire to win a larger war? Which was the greater protection: safety, or victory?

He saw the same conflict reflected in Anton’s eyes—the CEO’s need to fight, the man’s fear for the person he loved.

“I can’t…” Sabatine began the admission agony. “I can’t lose you. Not after everything. Not because of me.”

Anton’s expression softened. He pulled Sabatine into a fierce, desperate embrace. “You won’t,” he murmured into his hair. “Because you’ll be with me. Every step. We’re not bait, Sabe. We’re the hunters. They think they’re painting our portrait. Let’s give them a new picture. One of two men who are so in sync, so prepared, that any move they make is a move we’ve already anticipated.”

He pulled back, holding Sabatine’s face. “We have nine days. We have Nadir, Leon, Jessica. We have the data from The Vault. We know their operative, the Portraitist. We turn their game back on them. We are going to Geneva. We take that stage. And we end this.”

The fear was still there, a cold knot in Sabatine’s gut. But under Anton’s unwavering gaze, it began to transform. It was no longer a paralyzing dread, but a focused, crystalline urgency. The tortured loyalty found its resolution. He would not hide his principal in a hole. He would arm him, stand with him, and together they would assault the gates of their enemies.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, the operative’s calm resettling over him like a second skin. “Alright,” he said, his voice steady once more. “Then we plan. We start by giving Dr. Reinhart a new subject to study. A man on the edge of a breakdown, whose relationship is fraying under the pressure. A man who might just be desperate enough to make a mistake before his big speech.”

A grim, determined smile touched Anton’s lips. “A performance.”

“The performance of our lives,” Sabatine confirmed. The fear was now fuel. The loyalty, once tortured, was now a weapon. And the summit in Geneva was no longer a target; it was a battlefield they intended to win.

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