12. Bennett #2
Keep it close. It will not fix anything. But it will remind you what is worth protecting.
I did not understand then. I thought she meant the business, the legacy, the empire I was already building in her shadow.
She meant something else. Something you cannot buy, demolish, or control. The kind of thing that walks into your office, tells you you are wrong, and does not wait for permission.
I let go of the medal and open my calendar. Thursday is blocked, site walkthrough with the preservation team. Edda will not be there; the contract is finished, but I blocked it anyway, weeks ago, before I understood why.
I canceled the block. No more excuses to see her. No more pretending this is still about schedules and terms.
The afternoon dissolves into meetings I do not retain. Henderson sends the draft counter-filing at 4:12 PM. I read it twice, changed three words, and sent it back. Vera’s press statement arrives at 5:30. Cleaner than expected. Direct, exactly as requested, no spin.
I approve it.
At 6:15, I stand at the window and watch the city shift from afternoon into evening. Lights bloom across the grid, building by building. Somewhere out there is a shop closing for the day, and a woman who told me she is not a terms issue.
I know she is not. I have known since the diner booth, since the vinyl record in the back hallway, since she pulled my jacket from my shoulders, and I realized I had been watching her hands all night.
I have known, and I have kept reaching for contracts and schedules because that is the only language I speak fluently. Because the alternative is standing in her doorway with nothing to offer but the truth.
My phone buzzes. I expect Marcus, but it is Edda.
Diana Cassel’s deputy showed up at the shop today.
I read it twice before calling her. Text is not enough for this.
She answers on the second ring.
“Before you ask,” she says, “he did not come inside. Just stood on the sidewalk and took photos. I think he wanted me to see him.”
“When?”
“Two hours ago.”
“Why did you not call me?”
“Because I do not need you to handle it.” Her voice stays steady, but there is something worn at the edges of it. Not fear. Not quite. More like she is measuring how much of this she is willing to let me in on. “I am telling you because you should know. Not because I need you to fix it.”
I exhale slowly, one hand drifting to my pocket before I realize it, brushing the medal there and stopping.
“I filed a counter-response to Cassel’s heritage complaint. Full disclosure. Every invoice you earn, every hour you work, the independent designation timeline. Everything that proves you were never a prop.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I released the arrangement terms,” I add. “Not the engagement. The consulting contract. The work you did. The fact that you shaped the project before anyone knew your name.”
Still nothing.
Something tightens in my chest, sharper now. “I did not ask you first. I should have asked you first.”
“Yes.” Her voice is low. “You should have.”
“I am sorry.”
The word feels strange in my mouth. I’ve said it before, to contractors, to investors, to people I needed things from. I’ve never meant it the way I mean it now.
“I’m trying,” I say. “I don’t know how to do this without managing everything. But I’m trying.”
She doesn’t respond right away. I can hear the background through the line, the soft hum of her shop, maybe the faint crackle of a vinyl record she keeps playing too low for anyone else to notice.
“You sat in that boardroom today,” she says finally. “And you decided to release information that hurts your project because it protects me.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t call me first.”
“No.”
“That’s the problem, Bennett.” Her voice isn’t sharp. It lands worse than that. Calm. Measured. “You’re still making decisions for me instead of with me.”
The truth of it settles in without resistance. It doesn’t even try to defend itself. That used to be enough for me, recognition. Fix it and move on. This doesn’t work like that.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I want you to ask me that before you decide anything that involves me. Not after.”
“Okay.”
There’s a pause. When she speaks again, the edge has softened, but not the meaning.
“I’m not angry. I’m tired. And I’m pregnant, and I’m tired of being tired,” she says. “And I don’t want to argue about whether you’re protecting me. I just want you to stop shutting me out of it.”
My grip tightens on the phone without meaning to. Pregnant. She says it like it has already taken shape in her world, already found its place. For me, it still feels like something suspended, not yet real enough to hold.
“Can I see you?”
“Not tonight. I have inventory. And I need space to think.”
“About what?”
“About whether I can trust you to ask instead of deciding.”
I don’t answer. There isn’t a version of me that can improve that silence.
“Goodnight, Bennett,” she says.
“Goodnight, Edda.”
The line goes dead. I stay at the window, phone still in my hand, the city spread beneath me in grids of light and glass. I’ve built it, bought it, controlled it. None of it feels as solid as the question she just asked.
Whether I can learn to ask instead of deciding.
I slip my hand into my pocket and take out the medal. St. Christopher’s face catches the city light, worn smooth from years of being held. I don’t press my thumb to it. I just hold it there.
Hospice comes back without invitation. The quiet after. The way everything narrows to not knowing what comes next.
My mother gave it to me the day before she died. She told me it wouldn’t fix anything.
She was right about that.