Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
THERESA
Patrick’s hands on my bare skin, his mouth against my neck. The hotel room dark except for city lights through the curtains. He said my name in that sexy accent, and I pulled him closer, not thinking about anything except—
“Mom! The toast is burning!”
Austin’s voice cut through the memory I’ve been replaying in my mind all week. I blinked. Smoke poured from the toaster, filling the kitchen with the smell of burnt bread.
“Shit.” I lunged for the cancel button. Two blackened rectangles popped up, trailing smoke.
My face went hot—not from the toaster, but because I’d been standing here at six in the morning, reliving San Francisco.
“That’s the third time this week,” Austin said. His backpack was already on his shoulder, his expression pure judgment. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, sweetie.” I tossed the toast into the sink where it landed with a sad thud. “Just distracted.”
Patrick had been gone for four days. I couldn’t stop thinking about the hotel. About his hands, his voice, how his skin felt, warm and slick against mine.
I shook my head. It was six in the morning. My kids needed breakfast, not a mother lost in inappropriate memories.
“I’ll make more,” I said, dropping fresh slices into the toaster. “Can you pour juice for everyone? They’ll be down soon.”
Austin nodded and moved to the refrigerator with his usual efficiency. Sometimes I worried about him—this tiny adult in a child’s body, taking on responsibilities no eight-year-old should bear. But this morning, I was grateful.
I leaned against the counter, watching Austin fill four plastic cups with orange juice. The kitchen window showed only darkness and our reflection—mother and son, going through the motions.
Patrick would be awake now. With the eight-hour time difference, it was early afternoon in Edinburgh. I pictured him in a meeting somewhere, dealing with whatever crisis had pulled him across an ocean.
We’d agreed not to call while he was gone. “It’ll be easier that way,” he’d said. “I’ll be working around the clock, and you’ll be busy with the MacLeod deal.” I’d nodded, swallowing my disappointment. It was the responsible choice. The adult choice.
But standing there, watching smoke clear, I regretted our agreement. I wanted to call him. Just to hear his voice.
“Mom, the toast is burning. Again.”
Austin’s voice was sharper now. I spun toward the toaster where, impossibly, another set of bread slices had turned to charcoal.
“Oh, for—” I bit back the curse as the smoke detector joined in, its wail filling the kitchen. “Austin, can you open the back door?”
He was already moving. I grabbed a dish towel and flapped at the smoke detector, feeling like an idiot. What kind of CEO can’t even make toast?
“What’s happening? Is the house on fire?” Paris appeared in the doorway, wild curls sticking out everywhere, eyes wide.
“No, honey, just burnt toast,” I said, still flapping the towel. “I’ll help you get ready for school in a minute. Go pick out what color hair clips you want in your hair today.”
“I smell burning,” Rome said, appearing behind his sister, looking interested. “Can I see?”
“Nothing to see,” I said as the alarm finally stopped. “Just your mother failing at breakfast.”
“Again,” Austin added.
“Again,” I agreed, forcing a smile. “Who wants cereal instead?”
By the time Michael stumbled into the kitchen carrying Aspen, I’d managed to serve cereal without incident. Small victory.
“Morning,” Michael mumbled. He planted Aspen in his booster chair and headed straight for the coffee pot, as I put a bowl of dry Cheerios and a sippy cup in front of Aspen.
“You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said, taking the bowls to the sink. “Thought I’d get a head start on the day.”
“By setting off the smoke alarm?”
“That was unintended.”
Michael studied me over his coffee mug. In the five months he’d been helping out around here, my brother had developed an annoying ability to read my moods. “You miss him.”
I didn’t pretend not to understand. “It’s been five days.”
“Yeah. And?”
Whatever he was about to say was cut off by the phone ringing.
I glanced at the clock—6:32 a.m. Too early for a social call. I dried my hands and reached for the wall phone.
“Hello?”
“Theresa.” Arthur Vance’s voice sent ice through my stomach. “You need to come to the office. Immediately.”
This wasn’t a friendly check-in. This was a summons.
“What’s happened?” I asked, turning away from Michael’s stare.
“Not over the phone,” Arthur said. “Just get here as soon as you can.” He hung up.
I stood there holding the receiver, dread spreading through my chest.
“Who was that?” Michael asked.
“Arthur,” I said. “Something’s happened at the office. I need to go in.”
“Now?” Michael glanced at the clock. “It’s not even seven.”
“I know, but—” I gestured at the phone. “He wouldn’t say what it was.”
Michael sighed. “Go. Shelly will be down in a minute and we’ll finish feeding the troops. Then we’ll get everyone to school. Don’t worry.”
I gave his arm a quick squeeze. “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll call once I know something.”
The CarideoTech parking lot was nearly empty when I arrived. Only two other cars, including Arthur’s black BMW.
The building was quiet. No receptionist, no phones, no voices. Too early.
Arthur was waiting behind his desk, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back—projecting authority.
“Arthur,” I said, closing the door. “What’s happened?”
He gestured to the chair. “You should sit down.”
“I prefer to stand.”
Arthur shrugged. “The CFIUS committee has rejected the MacLeod partnership.”
I stopped breathing. Forced myself to stay still, keep my face blank.
The MacLeod deal was everything—my proof to the board that I could lead without Marco, my path to financial stability, my promise to his legacy.
“On what grounds?” My voice came out steady.
“National security concerns.” Arthur slid a thin folder across the desk. “They provided no specific reasons.”
I didn’t reach for the folder. “That’s unusual.”
“Very.” Arthur’s expression tried for concern, but his eyes were calculating. “The board meeting is in two weeks. Without the Scottish deal, your position becomes... precarious.”
There it was. The real reason for the early morning summons. Not to inform me—that could have waited. To watch me absorb the blow and crumble.
“Fortunately,” Arthur continued, “I’ve been cultivating relationships with several domestic investors who might be interested in stepping in. I can have preliminary proposals ready in time for the board meeting.”
Of course he had. Arthur had been planning this since Marco died. Maybe longer.
“Thank you for letting me know,” I said. “I’d like to see the full CFIUS filing.”
Arthur raised an eyebrow. “All four hundred pages of it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s rather technical.”
“I’m rather technical.” I held his gaze. “I’ll be in my office when you have it ready.”
I turned to leave. As I reached the door, he called after me.
“Theresa.” His voice had softened, but I wasn’t falling for his fake sympathy. “I know this is a setback, but perhaps it’s for the best. The board would understand if you decided to focus on your family for a while. No one would think less of you.”
I paused, hand on the doorknob, and looked back. “I appreciate your concern, Arthur. But I think we both know that’s not going to happen.”
The flash of annoyance across his face was quickly masked, but I’d seen it. Good. Let him know I wasn’t going to roll over.
Back in my office, I sat at my desk with the massive CFIUS filing spread before me, a cup of coffee at my elbow. The rejection letter was brief and vague citing only “national security concerns identified during review” without saying what those concerns were.
My gut said something was wrong. In the tech world, CFIUS rejections weren’t unheard of, but they typically came with clear indications of the problems. A flat denial without guidance was rare.
I reached for the phone and dialed Jim Morton, the company’s regulatory attorney. After two rings, his gravelly voice answered.
“Morton.”
“Jim, it’s Theresa Carideo. I’m looking at a CFIUS filing for our Scottish manufacturing partnership, and I need your take on it.”
A pause. “The MacLeod deal? I thought Arthur was handling that filing.”
“He was. It just got rejected with no specific reasons given.”
“That’s unusual,” Jim said. “They almost always provide a path for mitigation or clarification.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Let me know if I can help pinpointing it down.”
“Thanks. I’ll give it a read first, though.”
After hanging up, I turned back to the massive binders. If there was a security concern, it would be buried in the details.
Two hours and three cups of coffee later, I found it—a small section referencing “abandoned military research notes from 1991.” The notation was brief, just a paragraph mentioning early research into glucose monitoring for combat applications, but it was enough to set off alarms.
I remembered those notes. They were from the very earliest days of the company, when Marco was still exploring potential applications for his technology. The military angle had been deemed impractical and abandoned almost immediately, with the company pivoting entirely to medical uses.
But here in the CFIUS filing, the military research was mentioned in detail without any of the follow-up documentation that would have shown it was a dead end. Without that context, it looked like we were transferring dual-use technology with military applications to a foreign entity.
My hands went cold. Arthur had included the erroneous military research notes on purpose.
His offer to handle the paperwork hadn’t been collegial—it had been a trap. He’d set up a failure that he could then solve with his “domestic alternatives.” Alternatives he would control.
I leaned back in my chair. The board meeting was in two weeks. Without the Scottish deal, I had nothing to counter Arthur’s narrative that the company needed experienced leadership—his leadership—to navigate these waters.
The phone rang. I picked it up.
“Theresa Carideo.”
“Theresa, it’s Duncan MacLeod.” His Scottish brogue was recognizable, though his usual warmth was gone. “I’ve just received word about the regulatory complication.”
“Duncan, I was just about to call you. Yes, there’s been a hiccup with the CFIUS approval, but I want to assure you we’re addressing it immediately.”
“I see.” The pause was heavy. “And what is the nature of this... hiccup?”
I considered how much to reveal. Duncan was a potential partner, not a confidant. The last thing I needed was to air CarideoTech’s internal power struggles.
“It appears some old military research notes were included in the filing without proper context,” I said. “We’re preparing a supplementary filing that will clarify the situation.”
“Military research?” Duncan’s tone sharpened. “Theresa, are we talking about something that could genuinely pose a security concern?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “This was research that was abandoned years ago. It has no bearing on the current technology.”
Another pause.
“I have to consider the timeline here. My board is expecting movement on this deal within the month.”
The implied deadline meant, fix this quickly, or we walk away.
“I understand,” I said. “And I appreciate your patience. I believe we can resolve this quickly.”
“Very well. Keep me informed of your progress.”
After we hung up, I sat back in my chair, the binders spread across my desk like a paper explosion.
Outside my window, the sky was a dull, overcast gray, the kind of morning that couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain.
It was barely noon, and the day had already come at me sideways—but I wasn’t about to let that knock me off balance.
I had two weeks to fix this and show Arthur exactly who he was dealing with.
I pulled out a fresh legal pad and clicked my pen, the sound loud in the quiet office. At the top of the page, I wrote “COUNTER-STRATEGY” in block letters.
Arthur had declared war. Now it was my turn to fight back.