Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
THERESA
I felt the first tear as I stopped at the red light, my grip too tight on the steering wheel.
I’d been holding it together all day—through the meeting with R it felt heavy, charged. “I know that feeling,” he murmured. “Some days the only way out is through.”
The quiet understanding in his voice made my throat ache. He wasn’t offering empty platitudes. He was standing in the dark with me.
“I’m actually calling with some potentially good news,” Patrick continued, his voice warming, drawing me in. “Remember I mentioned my manufacturing partner in Scotland?”
“Yes,” I said, forcing myself to switch gears, to be the CEO he needed me to be. “Duncan MacLeod, right?”
“That’s right. Well, I’ve spoken with him at length about CarideoTech. He’s very interested in licensing your technology for the European market. He’s prepared to discuss specifics—funding, timelines, partnership structure, the works.”
My breath caught. This was exactly what I needed—a concrete business opportunity, a real path forward I could present to the board. Something to counter Arthur’s narrative that I was just a grieving widow clinging to her husband’s legacy.
“Patrick, that’s—” I swallowed hard, the relief dizzying. “That’s incredible news. Thank you.”
“No need for thanks. You have a solid technology with real potential. Duncan’s interest is purely practical—his company could genuinely benefit from this partnership.”
“Still,” I insisted, my voice lowering. “I appreciate you reaching out. The timing couldn’t be better, actually. I have a board meeting tomorrow. This would be... helpful.”
“Tell them that MacLeod is ready to move forward quickly,” Patrick said. Then his tone dropped, becoming almost conspiratorial. “If you’d like to meet after your meeting to discuss the details, I’m actually in San Jose now.”
I blinked, surprised. “San Jose? As in, here? In California?”
“Aye. MIRI is establishing a West Coast division. I think I mentioned it. We’ve set up shop temporarily while we build our permanent facility. I moved with my children last week.”
“Oh, that’s... convenient.”
“Very,” he agreed. I could hear the smile in his voice—a low, pleased sound that made my skin prickle. “I’ll fax you everything, so you have it for your meeting tomorrow. Like I said, we could meet for coffee after, and discuss it further?”
Coffee. A normal, professional thing. Yet the way he said it felt like an invitation to something more dangerous.
“Yes,” I said, my pulse picking up speed. “Coffee would be great. When were you thinking? The board meeting usually runs until noon.”
“Say, two o’clock? There’s a café near some potential MIRI offices I’m looking at, called The Arbor Café. Do you know it?”
“I do.” It was quiet, intimate. “Tomorrow at two works for me.”
“Excellent. I’ll bring the originals MacLeod sent over.”
There was a pause. Neither of us hung up. The static hummed between us, thick with things unsaid.
“Theresa,” Patrick said finally, his voice rougher, softer. “Are ya feeling okay?”
The question caught me off guard. It wasn’t the polite inquiry of a business associate. It was personal. Intense.
“No,” I admitted, the truth slipping out before I could stop it. “Not really. But I’m getting there.”
“Good days and bad days?”
“More bad than good lately,” I whispered. “But I’m fighting.”
“I know you are.” The conviction in his voice was a physical touch. “For what it’s worth, you’re doing better than you think. The fact that you can say you’re not all right—that’s progress.”
I let out a short, watery laugh. “Is it? Because it feels like falling apart.”
“Falling apart is part of healing,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You can’t rebuild without first acknowledging what’s broken.”
The intimacy of the moment was almost too much. I felt exposed, seen in a way that was both terrifying and thrilling.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “For the business opportunity and... the perspective.”
“You’re welcome. For both.” He paused, and I could almost see him leaning closer to the phone. “So, tomorrow at two?”
“Tomorrow at two,” I confirmed. “I’ll see you then.”
“Looking forward to it. Goodbye, Theresa.”
“Goodbye, Patrick.”
I ended the call and sat in my car, staring at the phone. My heart was hammering against my ribs. What had just happened? A business call, certainly. But it felt like more than that. It felt like a current running under the surface, pulling me toward something I wasn't sure I was ready for.
What kind of widow does that make me?
I looked up in the rearview mirror, expecting to see shame. Instead, I saw color in my cheeks. A spark in my eyes that hadn't been there ten minutes ago.
Possibility.
Not romance—it was far too soon for that. But connection. Understanding from a man who had walked through the fire and come out the other side.
I pulled my hair back into a sleek chignon, securing it with more pins than necessary. No softness today. The board needed to see a leader.
The board meeting was scheduled for nine o’clock.
In precisely three hours, Arthur Vance would present his vision for CarideoTech’s future—a future that conveniently excluded me.
But I had my own presentation, my own vision.
And thanks to Patrick McCrae’s fax, I had a letter of intent from Duncan MacLeod that might just save everything Marco and I had built.
The band on my finger caught the light as I reached for my mascara, a sharp ache piercing my chest. I traced the ring with my thumb.
I’m fighting for us, Marco. For everything we built.
A small voice from the hallway interrupted my thoughts.
“Mommy?” Paris stood in the doorway, her dark hair tangled from sleep, clutching her favorite stuffed elephant. “Are you going to work?”
I softened instantly, kneeling to her level. “Yes, baby. I have an important meeting today.”
She nodded solemnly, processing this information with her characteristic directness. “Will you be home for dinner?”
“I will,” I promised, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And we’ll have ice cream for dessert.”
She nodded, satisfied with this arrangement. “Aunt Shelly says you’re fighting for Daddy’s dream.”
My throat tightened. “That’s right.”
“You’ll win,” Paris said with absolute certainty. “Daddy always said you were the smartest.”
I pulled her into a fierce hug, inhaling the sweet scent of her strawberry shampoo. “I’m going to try, baby. I’m really going to try.”
The CarideoTech boardroom felt colder than usual. Arthur Vance, seated directly across from me, had the reptilian stillness of a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He didn’t have to wait long.
He began his presentation with a tone of deep, manufactured concern, painting a picture of a company adrift since Marco’s death. He spoke of “leadership instability” and “market hesitation.” Then came the killing blow.