Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
The San Jose Marriott Marquis was packed with the usual crowd—venture capitalists in expensive suits, startup founders in casual jeans, and the engineers who actually built the technology wearing whatever they’d grabbed that morning.
The BioInnovate Conference brought out everyone who mattered in medical technology, and from the stares I was getting, people had heard about me.
The widow. The woman whose husband died on a ski slope two months ago. The CEO claimant.
I kept my chin up, my expression neutral as I made my way through the main hall toward the registration desk.
Shelly had helped me pick out my outfit—a tailored navy suit that said “executive” without screaming “trying too hard,” paired with the pearl earrings Marco had given me for our fifth anniversary.
“Theresa Carideo.” I handed my driver’s license to the young woman at registration. She glanced at it, then at me, then back at the screen.
“Oh, Mrs. Carideo. I’m so sorry about your husband. He was always so great at these events, and we’ll really miss him.” She flushed, realizing she was saying too much. “Anyway—here’s your badge and welcome packet.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking them with a forced smile.
The badge felt heavy. Theresa Carideo, CarideoTech, CEO.
No longer just Chief Strategy Officer. A firm declaration. Arthur would see it eventually. If he was here—and he probably was—he’d have questions.
The morning keynote was starting in twenty minutes.
I found a quiet corner near the coffee station and checked my schedule.
Three panel discussions today, networking lunch, then the evening reception.
Somewhere in all of that, I needed to convince people that CarideoTech was still a force in the industry, that we hadn’t died with Marco.
“Theresa.”
I turned to find Dr. Vivian Keller, the Chief Medical Officer from one of our competitors. We’d always had a friendly relationship.
“Vivian. Good to see you.”
She pulled me into a deep hug that I hadn’t expected but desperately needed. “I’m so sorry about Marco. We all are. He was one of the good ones.”
“Thank you,” I managed around the lump in my throat.
“Are you speaking at any of the panels?” she asked, releasing me.
“Not this year. Just attending, making the rounds.”
Vivian’s expression turned knowing. “Showing the flag. Smart. There’s been a lot of talk.”
“I’m sure there has been.”
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “most of us think you can do it.”
The validation from a competitor, of all people, nearly undid me. “I appreciate that more than you know.”
“The keynote’s starting soon. Want to sit together? Strength in numbers and all that.”
I nodded, glad for the company, and we headed into the vast ballroom. There were hundreds of seats, and most were already taken. Vivian steered us to a spot about halfway back, and I slipped into an aisle seat, already plotting my escape if things got too heavy.
The lights dimmed. The keynote speaker—a renowned cardiologist discussing minimally invasive surgical techniques—took the stage.
I tried to focus, taking notes on my program, but my mind kept wandering.
Marco loved these conferences, the energy, the ideas, the connections.
He’d be scribbling notes in the margins, already thinking about how to apply whatever he was hearing to our work.
The presentation ended with enthusiastic applause. I clapped mechanically, already standing.
“Coffee break,” Vivian said. “Want to brave the crowds?”
“I think I need some air first,” I admitted.
“I’ll save you a seat at lunch. Table seven.”
I nodded my thanks and made my way out of the ballroom, swimming upstream against the crowd heading toward coffee and pastries. The main lobby was quieter, and I found a small alcove near the windows overlooking the city.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and closed my eyes. You can do this. Just a few more hours. Then you can go back to the hotel and fall apart in private.
“You look like you’re calculating the drop distance.”
The voice was deep, rich with a Scottish burr that vibrated pleasantly against my spine. I turned, startled, to find a man standing just inside the alcove.
He was devastatingly handsome in a way that felt unfair for a Tuesday afternoon—tall and broad-shouldered, with copper-gold curls that looked like they fought a losing battle against a comb. But it was his eyes that held me. Pale, piercing blue, framed by lashes that were far too long.
“I beg your pardon?” I managed, straightening my blazer instinctively.
“The drop.” He gestured toward the window I’d been staring out of. “From here to the pavement. You had that specific look of someone weighing the risk of a broken ankle against the agony of one more conversation about synergy.”
A startled laugh escaped me before I could check it. “I was considering the service elevator. Less impact damage.”
“Smart. High risk, high reward.” He stepped closer, and the air in the small alcove suddenly felt charged, crackling with a static that had nothing to do with the hotel carpet. “I’m Patrick McCrae.”
He extended a hand. I took it, expecting the usual limp, sweaty conference handshake. Instead, his grip was warm, firm, and calloused. A working man’s hand in an expensive suit. A jolt of electricity, sharp and surprising, zinged up my arm.
“Theresa Carideo.”
“I know.” He didn’t let go immediately. His thumb brushed the back of my hand, a barely-there touch that made my breath hitch. “I watched you during the keynote. You were the only one not nodding along to Dr. Evans’ theory on micro-dosing.”
“Dr. Evans thinks aspirin is a placebo,” I said, withdrawing my hand slowly. My skin still tingled where he’d touched me. “It’s hard to nod at nonsense.”
“Aye. It is.” A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, but then his gaze shifted. He looked at me—really looked at me—and the amusement in his eyes was replaced by something heavier. Something recognizable.
“It’s your first time back, isn’t it?” he asked softly.
The shift was so sudden it gave me whiplash. The flirtatious spark vanished, replaced by a raw, stripping intimacy.
“Excuse me?”
“Since your husband passed.” He didn’t say it with pity. “I know the look, Theresa. The ‘I’m fine’ armor. The way you smile with your mouth but keep your eyes dead so no one asks how you really are. I wore it for six months straight after my wife died.”
The air left my lungs. I stared at him, this stranger who had just reached into my chest and squeezed my heart.
“Is it that obvious?” I whispered, the professional mask crumbling.
“Only to a member of the club.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall, creating a shelter between us and the bustling hallway. “I’m a year out. It gets... different. The noise gets quieter.”
“Does it?”
“Eventually.”
We stood there for a beat, suspended in a pocket of silence amidst the conference chaos. It was a pang of connection so sharp it almost hurt—two survivors finding each other in the wreckage.
Then, just as quickly, he straightened, handing me back my dignity.
“I didn’t just come over here to ruin your hiding spot,” he said, his tone shifting back to professional interest, though the warmth remained.
“I run the McCrae International Research Institute—MIRI. We fund and facilitate medical research, primarily focused on bringing innovative technologies to market.” He tilted his head.
“We’re more of a bridge, really. Connecting researchers with the resources and partnerships they need to bring their work out of the lab and into the real world. ”
“A research institute,” I said, my pulse quickening. “Based in Scotland?”
“Aye, headquartered in Edinburgh, but we’ve been expanding. Most of the innovative medical device research is happening out here now.” He paused, studying me for a moment. “I’ve heard about your company, CarideoTech. The continuous glucose monitoring system. Impressive technology.”
Something shifted in my chest. “You know about our work?”
“I do my homework.” He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, crinkling the corners. “I have a contact in Edinburgh—Duncan MacLeod. He manufactures medical devices for the European market. He’s looking for exactly what you’re developing.”
My pulse kicked up—not from attraction this time, but from the adrenaline of opportunity. “Manufacturing? We’re looking for a partner to scale.”
“I’ve heard. Duncan is back in Scotland, unfortunately, but I’d be happy to reach out to him on your behalf. I can send him the prelims, see if he’s interested in a conversation.”
“That would be... incredible.”
I reached into my blazer pocket, pulling out my card case. My fingers trembled slightly as I handed him a business card. “My home phone is on the back.”
Patrick took the card, studying it for a moment before tucking it securely into his breast pocket, right over his heart.
“I’ll reach out to him,” he promised, his gaze holding mine. “And then I’ll let you know what he says.”
It was a business offer, but it felt like a lifeline. A promise of future contact. An excuse to talk again.
He checked his watch, a battered vintage piece that contrasted with his crisp cuffs. “I’m afraid I have a meeting, but I hope I’ll see you around.”
“Me too, and thank you,” I said, and I meant it for more than just the business lead.
“I’ll be in touch, Theresa Carideo.”
He stepped aside to let me pass. As I walked away, I could feel his eyes on me. I didn’t look behind me, but strangely enough, this didn’t feel like walking away from something.
I felt like I was walking toward something.
The networking lunch was as exhausting as I’d expected. I smiled and made small talk and deflected questions about “the transition” at CarideoTech. Vivian Keller ran interference when needed, steering conversation away from Marco.