Chapter 9 #2
“Our investors’ confidence is shaken,” Arthur announced, his eyes sweeping the room before landing on me with faux sympathy. “Their continued support is contingent on bringing in me as CEO. This would allow Theresa the space to focus on her family, while I will handle the day-to-day pressures.”
He was framing his coup as a kindness. The condescension was so thick I could taste it. He was using my grief, my motherhood, as a weapon to pry my fingers from the company I had built.
I let the silence hang for a beat before I stood. “Thank you, Arthur. A compelling work of fiction.”
A few board members shifted uncomfortably. Arthur’s polite mask tightened.
“But while you’ve been pursuing hypotheticals,” I continued, connecting the projector, “I’ve been securing our future.”
My first slide appeared: the logo for MacLeod Precision Manufacturing.
“I’ve secured a letter of intent from one of Europe’s leading medical device manufacturers,” I stated, my voice clear and steady.
“They are prepared to sign a fifteen-million-dollar licensing partnership for our glucose monitoring technology, giving CarideoTech immediate access to the entire European market.”
The room went silent. Arthur’s face was a mask of disbelief.
Robert Pearson, our oldest board member, leaned forward. “This changes the landscape considerably, Theresa.”
“A letter of intent is hardly a signed contract,” Arthur interjected, scrambling to regain control.
“You’re right,” I agreed, meeting his gaze. “Which is why I’m asking the board for time to finalize it. Table Arthur’s proposal and give me the chance to deliver on this.”
It wasn’t even a debate. The mood in the room had shifted entirely. They voted to table Arthur’s motion, effectively handing me the reins, at least for now. I had won.
As the meeting adjourned, Arthur cornered me by the door. “Congratulations,” he said, his voice dripping with venom. “You bought yourself some time. But partnerships fall through.”
I finished packing my briefcase before looking at him. “You see business as a series of transactions, Arthur. I see it as relationships. Let’s see which one wins in the end.”
I left him standing alone in the boardroom, his meticulously planned victory in ashes around him.
The Arbor Café’s floor-to-ceiling windows looked out onto a small, manicured park.
I’d arrived early, needing time to decompress after the board meeting.
Watching the people walk the tree-lined paths, their lives moving forward in the afternoon sun, helped ground me.
It was a quiet reminder that the world was larger than the boardroom, that life continued outside the high-stakes battle I was fighting.
I spotted Patrick the moment he walked in—tall, broad-shouldered, copper curls catching the light.
The jeans and fitted polo he wore gave him an easy, effortless kind of appeal—casual but unmistakably put-together.
His gaze moved through the café until it landed on me, and that smile—open, warm, disarming—lit his entire face.
My stomach flipped in response, a sensation so foreign after months of numbness that I almost didn’t recognize it.
“Theresa.” He approached the table with easy confidence, extending his hand. When I took it, he held it a moment longer than necessary before releasing it. “You’re looking remarkably well, all things considered.”
“I’m looking like someone who just survived a board meeting,” I corrected with a small smile as he settled into the seat across from me. “But thank you for the polite fiction.”
“Not fiction at all.” His accent wrapped around the words, making even the simple statement sound warmer. “There’s color in your face that wasn’t there at the conference. Fight suits you, I reckon.”
I laughed despite myself. “That’s one way to put it.”
A waitress appeared with menus, and Patrick ordered an Earl Grey tea while I got a refill of my coffee. Once she’d departed, he leaned back slightly, studying me with those unsettling blue eyes.
“So then. How did it go? The meeting?”
“I won. For now.” I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug, drawing comfort from its warmth. “The board gave me time to convert MacLeod’s letter of intent into an actual contract.”
“That’s excellent news.” He paused, then added with quiet certainty, “Though I cannae say I’m surprised. Duncan was genuinely impressed with your technology—the letter of intent wasn’t a favor to me, I assure you.”
“Still, you made the introduction. Without that, I’d be in a very different position right now.” I hesitated, then added quietly, “Thank you, Patrick.”
He looked down at his hands for a moment, drumming his fingers lightly on the table before meeting my gaze again. “I should be honest with you, Theresa. While I believe wholeheartedly in the business merit of this partnership, my motives for arranging this meeting weren’t entirely... professional.”
My pulse quickened, skipping a beat. “What do you mean?”
He was quiet for a moment, seeming to choose his words with care, his gaze direct and unwavering.
“I’ve not been able to stop thinking about you since the conference.
About our conversation. The way you spoke of your work, your husband, your grief.
..” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
“It resonated with me in a way nothing has in a very long time.”
His confession was honest and raw. I should have been uncomfortable—it had not even been four months since Marco had died, far too soon for anything like this. But instead, I felt something loosen in my chest, as if tight bands had finally given way.
“I’ve thought about you too,” I admitted, the words leaving my lips before I could call them back. “Which feels... wrong. Disloyal, somehow.”
Patrick nodded slowly, understanding darkening his eyes. “Aye, I ken that feeling well. The guilt of feeling anything that isn’t grief. As if by experiencing even a moment of connection or happiness, we’re somehow betraying them.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Exactly that.”
The waitress returned with our drinks, breaking the moment but not the tension. We thanked her and fell into silence until she departed.
“Tell me about him,” Patrick said, his voice gentler now, inviting rather than probing. “Your husband. I’d like to know the man who built this with you.”
The request caught me off guard. Most people avoided mentioning Marco around me, as if speaking his name might shatter me. But Patrick asked with simple directness, without the awkward hesitation I’d grown accustomed to.
“Marco was...” I paused, searching for words that could possibly capture the man I’d loved for nearly a decade.
“He was brilliant. Not just intellectually, though he was that too. He had this emotional intelligence, this ability to connect with people and make them believe in his vision. He could walk into a room full of strangers and leave with a dozen new friends.”
Patrick smiled, a genuine warmth reaching his eyes. “The charismatic type, then.”
“Very. But not in a superficial way. He genuinely cared about people, about making a difference in their lives. That’s why we started CarideoTech.”
I told Patrick about Marco’s passion for our company, his unwavering optimism.
I told him about Marco’s love for our family, how he’d read to the kids every night no matter how exhausted he was.
How he’d been teaching Austin to play chess, how he’d built a treehouse for Rome, how he’d dance with Paris in the kitchen while making Sunday pancakes.
And finally, I told him about the avalanche.
About waking up to find Marco gone, about the note promising he’d be back for breakfast, about the hotel manager and ski patrol officers at my door.
About the surreal days that followed—arranging for him to be flown home, planning a funeral while still in shock.
“The hardest part,” I said, my voice barely audible over the café’s ambient noise, “was telling the kids. Austin understood immediately—he’s so much like Marco, so analytical.
But Rome threw himself on the floor, screaming that I was lying.
Paris just kept asking when Daddy was coming home, over and over, as if repetition might change the answer.
And Aspen... she stopped talking altogether. ”
Patrick reached across the table, covering my hand with his. The touch was warm, solid, grounding. “There’s no proper way to tell bairns their father is gone. No words can soften that blow.”
“How did you tell your family?” I asked, suddenly realizing I knew almost nothing about his family beyond the fact that he’d lost his wife.
His expression shifted, pain shadowing those blue eyes for just a moment before he steadied himself. “My oldest, Alec, was eight when Shannon died. He was there at the hospital—they all were. The doctors had tried everything, but the pulmonary embolism... it happened that quickly.”
I turned my hand under his, squeezing his fingers. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was just over a year ago now,” he said, his voice level though I could hear the control it took to keep it that way.
“Shannon had just given birth to Maggie, our sixth. Everything seemed fine at first, but then she developed chest pain, shortness of breath. By the time they realized what was happening...” He trailed off, shaking his head.
“The little ones were in the waiting room with Shannon’s parents.
I had to go tell them their mother was gone. ”
“Six kids,” I repeated, the number finally registering. “You have six kids?”
A small smile touched his lips, genuine warmth breaking through the grief. “Aye. Alec’s nine now, Brody’s seven, the twins Carson and Cory are six, Eoin’s four, and wee Maggie’s one. It’s a proper circus most days.”
I stared at him, trying to reconcile this information with the composed, professional man sitting across from me. “And you’re raising them alone?”
“With help, mind you,” he clarified. “Mrs. Kowalski, our nanny, of course, and Shannon’s parents would visit when they could.
And we had a small army of tutors, housekeepers, and childcare providers that kept the wheels from coming off entirely.
” He paused, his accent thickening slightly.
“Of course, that was in Scotland, and now with this move a lot will change. But I reckon we needed something new anyway.”
I nodded, still processing. Six kids. All going through the same grief my four were experiencing. All being raised by a single father who was simultaneously running a major research institute.
“Is that why you moved to San Jose?” I asked. “For a fresh start?”
A hint of hesitation touched his features. “Partly,” he admitted. “MIRI is expanding its West Coast operations, and San Jose was the right fit. It’s close to research facilities, good schools, or so I’ve heard, and I figured it’d offer a good quality of life for the bairns.”
There was something he wasn’t saying. I could see it in the way his gaze shifted slightly, in the careful neutrality of his tone. But I didn’t push.
“That makes sense,” I said instead. “Well, yes, San Jose is the heart of the industry.” I took a sip of my coffee, purposefully redirecting both our thoughts.
“And speaking of the industry, my board has given me a very short window to turn this opportunity into a contract. We should discuss the MacLeod partnership.”
“Of course.” Patrick accepted the shift to safer territory with grace, though something flickered in his eyes—disappointment, perhaps. “Duncan’s company produces quite a range of medical devices, mostly for the European market.”
For the next hour, we discussed partnership details—regulations, money, and how much cash would flow back to CarideoTech. Details about MacLeod’s operation and how Europeans actually do business.
I scribbled notes on my pad, firing questions about tactics while we hammered out the plan. This was my comfort zone—concrete business strategy, clear objectives, measurable outcomes.
Patrick checked his watch as we wrapped up. “I should get back. I’ve monopolized your schedule long enough.”
“Worth every minute,” I said, collecting my papers. “Thank you so much, Patrick.”
Patrick hesitated, his fingers drumming once against the table—the only sign of nervousness I’d seen from him. When he spoke, his voice was careful, formal. “I wonder if you might be free Saturday evening? I’d very much like to take you to dinner.”
The invitation caught me off guard, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. There had been an undercurrent throughout our entire conversation—a connection that went beyond business.
“Patrick,” I began, “I’m not sure if I’m ready for—”
“It’s just dinner,” he said quickly, though his formality had slipped slightly. “No pressure, no expectations. Just two people who understand each other’s situations sharing a meal and conversation.”
I studied his face—the careful hope in his eyes, the slight tension in his jaw. There was something steadying about his presence that made the constant ache in my chest feel slightly less overwhelming.
“Saturday,” I said finally. “That would be nice.”
His smile was warm, genuine, transforming his entire face. “Shall I pick you up? Around seven?”
I nodded, already feeling the guilt creeping in. What would people think? What would my kids think? Was I betraying Marco’s memory by having dinner with another man, less than four months after his death?
“Theresa.” Patrick’s voice pulled me from my spiral. His expression had softened, understanding written in every line. “We’re both navigating waters we’ve never sailed before. There’s no map for this, no rulebook. We’ll simply take it one step at a time, aye?”
“One step at a time,” I repeated, grateful for his understanding.
We stood, and Patrick helped me with my blazer—a gentleman’s gesture that felt comforting. As we walked to the door, his hand rested briefly on the small of my back, a touch so light I might have imagined it.
Outside, the afternoon sun was bright after the café’s dimmer interior. We paused on the sidewalk, neither quite ready to part ways.
“Thank you,” I said again. “For everything. The business connection, the understanding, the—” I gestured vaguely between us, unable to name what this was.
“No thanks needed.” His accent wrapped around the words, making them feel like more than simple courtesy. “I’ll see you Saturday, then.”
“Saturday,” I confirmed.
He held my gaze for a moment longer, then turned and walked to his car—an older Land Rover that somehow suited him perfectly. I watched him drive away, my pulse still catching from the simple memory of his touch.
My wedding ring caught the sunlight, and guilt twisted sharp in my chest.
But underneath the guilt was something else. Something fragile and new.
Hope.