By the day, bustle of complaints and discipline rebounced from ear-to-ear. Though yabbered daily, blurbs of her evident stress went ignored. Goddamn loosecannons always dove in first, negligent of the consequences.

The outturn is Vought's glory decaying akin to milk—the onus aimed at the muscleheads chained to their contracts. Brawns with no brain, journalists say, and the public gobbled every word.

Safeguarding her incompetent pawns from the accusations would take a miracle.

But defending you from kindred allegations? As easy as pie.

"You did a good job today." Utterance of praises were rare in the expansive glasspanes of Madelyn's domain. Your case, however, bestowed an exception.

Once moonlight filtered through the transparent panes, and Vought's roof housed two miniscule figures—yours and hers—alone, gratificafion arrived in clandestine meetings.

Words, acts of service, whichever your soul desired at an ungodly hour, she'd grant.

So long as you, on no account, severed your oath of perfection.

"Clean record, once again." Temptation to clap rushed in, but a placid grin resurfaced swifter, enriching striated lines on twain cheeks. Lines orchestrated by the sorcery of aging and adult care for literal maniacs—no thanks to both.

The couch's creaks synced with her infrequent shifts, gradually ceasing upon pinpointing a snugly spot with your head's rear homely on her lap. "I can only imagine what headlines they must be conjuring you right now," mused she.

"Maybe, something along..." her greige brow rised. "'The Darling of The City?' 'An Icon of Hope?' 'The—" paused to tenderly stroke the edge of your cheek, "Next Homelander?'"

Her grin widened—pleased. Best put a leash on her tamed dog than an unruly one.

"Must be so tiring for you, my dear," commented she, whilst fingertips piloted towards the top, dancing across your scalp in a gentle massage. "Carrying the company's name, all on your own."

Expertly caresses unraveled the knots of stress and an inquiry surged, "Does this help?"