Bound by Vows, Torn by fire

Power Suit Politics Continues

He leaned back slowly, gaze never leaving hers. “I believe in precision. Euphemisms are for politicians.”

“Then give me precision. What do you call putting five hundred people out of work?”

Dalton didn’t flinch. “Necessary.”

Josie let the silence stretch. Let the air between them vibrate with the answer. “And do you sleep at night after something necessary like that?”

That time, he smiled. Full. Cold. “Better than most.”

She clicked her recorder louder than necessary and set it on the table between them. “What drives you? Money? Power? Or the ability to burn bridges and call it evolution?”

Dalton’s eyes flicked to the recorder, then back to her. “Do you want a quote for your editor or the truth for yourself?”

That stopped her. Briefly.

“Because here’s the truth,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “People don’t fear change. They fear being irrelevant. My job isn’t to keep people comfortable it’s to keep my company alive. You want emotion? Interview an actor. You want a functioning machine? Watch me work.”

Josie didn’t back down. “You weren’t born into this.”

A pause. Subtle, but real. A thread pulled tight beneath the skin.

“No,” Dalton replied. “I earned every inch of it.”

“How?” she asked. “Because no one climbs this fast without blood on their shoes.”

He tilted his head, and his eyes narrowed not in anger, but in calculation. She could feel it, the way he was dissecting her sentence, her stance, even her breath. Then, with a voice smooth as poured scotch, he said:

“You’re from Jersey.”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“Your vowels,” he said. “The way you press your consonants. You’ve buried it well, but it’s there. You worked hard to lose that accent, didn’t you?”

Josie didn’t answer. The interview had shifted.

Dalton smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “You put yourself through college. Probably three part-time jobs. Scholarships. No safety net. Journalism degree. Not Ivy League, but close. You clawed your way into a paper that’s dying faster than it admits.”

He leaned forward.

“And now, your editor is threatening to gut your future unless you deliver something big. Something… Rourke sized.”

Every cell in Josie’s body tightened. She felt exposed in a way she hadn’t expected. Not violated just seen. Stripped.

“How do you ”

“I know hunters when I see them,” Dalton said. “You’re not here for a story. You’re here because it’s survival.”

Josie held his gaze. Her throat burned, but she didn’t blink. “And you’re not a businessman. You’re a scalpel.”

He chuckled. It was low, rich, and almost… amused.

“You wanted a staredown,” she said. “You’re getting one.”

Dalton stood without warning. Josie tensed but didn’t rise. He moved to the liquor cart near the floor-to-ceiling window and poured himself a drink with deliberate ease. No offer to her.

“I could destroy you,” he said casually, his back still turned. “Not just your career.

The recorder was silent, but the room was not.

Behind the paneled wall, the private lounge was low-lit, hushed like a confession booth. Books lined the walnut shelves first editions, leather bound, perfectly dustless. A fireplace crackled softly, though there was no chill in the air. It was staged comfort, designed to disarm.

Dalton didn’t speak right away. He poured two glasses of something amber and expensive, then handed one to Josie without asking.

She didn’t take it. “I’m still on the record. Just not your record.”

He gave a soft huff, amused. “Of course you are.” Then, after sipping, he added, “You’re not who you pretend to be, Josie Hart.”

Her spine straightened.

Dalton leaned back against the fireplace mantel. “I do background checks on anyone who gets within five feet of my boardroom. But you, I dug deeper. Because you didn’t come in asking about this quarter’s earnings or our global partnerships. You came for the rot.”

“I’m a reporter. That’s my job.”

“Is it?” He studied her over the rim of his glass. “Or is it personal?”

Josie’s jaw tightened.

Dalton tilted his head slightly. “Your father Caleb Hart. He worked for the Easton Group before they collapsed. Lost everything, didn’t he? After they were acquired by one of my companies.”

Josie’s stomach dropped.

Dalton’s voice stayed velvet smooth. “Do you believe I’m the reason he drank himself to death?”

It was a knife. Spoken without malice. Sharpened with precision.

Josie inhaled slowly. “You don’t get to weaponize my grief.”

“I’m asking,” Dalton said, quiet now. “Not accusing.”

But it wasn’t a concern in his eyes. It was curiosity. Like she was a puzzle he was deciding whether or not to solve.

Josie crossed her arms. “You invited me here to play therapist?”

“No,” Dalton said. “I wanted to see what you’d do when the mask cracked.”

They stood in silence again. The logs hissed softly in the grate.

“You’re good at this,” she said finally. “But you still haven’t asked me the real off-the-record question.”

Dalton smiled faintly. “Why you came to me.”

She hesitated. “Why does it matter?”

“Because you’re not just chasing a scoop,” he said. “You’re chasing vindication. Or vengeance. And I don’t want either of those things sitting across from me pretending to be fair.”

Josie stepped closer. Her voice is low now. “Then stop pretending you’re the wronged party.”

Dalton raised his glass. “Touché.”

She turned to leave.

“That wasn’t the real question,” he said behind her.

Josie paused her hand on the brass handle.

Dalton’s voice changed quieter, edged. “Do you still talk to your brother?”

She froze.

“You shouldn’t,” Dalton said. “If you want to survive in this business.”

Josie slowly turned back around. “You know about Caleb, and now you’re bringing up Aaron? What do you want, Dalton?”

He didn’t move from the fire. “I want you to understand that the story you’re chasing if you keep digging doesn’t end with a headline. It ends with you wrecked. Just like your brother. Just like your father.”

Josie’s hands were shaking. She masked it by gripping her purse tighter.

“You’re threatening me.”

“I’m warning you,” he said.

“And what if I don’t back off?”

Dalton crossed the room in two silent steps. He reached past her, opened the door, and let the cool air from the outer office sweep in.

“Then I suppose,” he said with that same damned calm, “I’ll have to decide if you’re worth burning.”

Her breath hitched.

He was so close. His scent was warm and dark, like bergamot and expensive wood polish.

Josie stared up at him. “You don’t scare me.”

“I know,” Dalton said. “That’s the part I find so dangerous.”

And then, with the faintest brush of his hand on the small of her back, he led her out of the room.

As the door shut behind her, Josie knew one thing.

He knew more than he should.

And he wasn’t done with her.

Not even close.