Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Julian
Preston Hale stands near the windows with a scotch in his hand, speaking to Marcus Levin from corporate development about an acquisition I rejected six months ago.
Preston has served on the board since I was still at MIT, and he has never encountered a closed subject he could not reopen under the pretense of due diligence.
“I still think we walked away too early,” Preston says as I approach.
“The valuation was aggressive, but the underlying assets were sound.”
“The underlying liabilities weren’t,” I reply.
Marcus lowers his glass, making no attempt to enter the disagreement. He is smart enough to know Preston isn’t asking for his opinion.
Preston turns toward me. “Liabilities can be managed.”
“Some can,” I say. “Those couldn’t.”
He studies me for a moment, then gives a shallow nod that indicates the conversation is postponed rather than concluded. “You’ve always had a low tolerance for uncertainty.”
“I have a low tolerance for disguising uncertainty as opportunity.”
Marcus hides a smile behind his drink.
Across the room, Vivian Cross closes a leather folio and hands it to one of the senior finance executives.
She is dressed in a dark green suit, her silver-streaked hair cut neatly at her jaw.
Vivian has served as general counsel for more than a decade, which means she has spent years anticipating risks the rest of us would prefer not to see.
She joins us and looks directly at Preston.
“If you’re discussing the Carrow acquisition again, I should remind you that the indemnification language was so poorly drafted it could’ve exposed us to litigation in three jurisdictions.”
Preston’s expression tightens. “We were speaking hypothetically.”
“You rarely do,” Vivian replies.
Marcus coughs into his fist to conceal another smile.
I glance toward the door before checking the time. Sophie’s driver confirmed her departure from the hotel twenty minutes ago. The restaurant is close enough that she should arrive at any moment.
Vivian notices the movement. “Are we waiting for someone else?”
“The journalist,” Preston answers before I can.
“Ms. Callahan.”
Vivian’s eyes settle on me.
“The reporter from The Ledger?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I read her series on the Lockridge accounting scandal,” Vivian replies.
“She was thorough.”
“That’s one word for it,” Preston says.
“It’s the accurate one,” Vivian tells him.
The doors open before Preston can respond.
Sophie steps into the room beside the hostess, and every conversation within my immediate reach recedes.
Her black dress follows the clean line of her body before falling just above her knees.
It is elegant without being elaborate, though there is nothing simple about the effect.
Her dark hair is full and loose around her shoulders, catching the light when she turns to thank the hostess.
The red lipstick from this morning is gone, replaced by a softer shade that draws my attention to her mouth with no less force.
I should remain where I am and allow the hostess to bring her into the room.
Instead, I cross the floor before I have consciously decided to move.
Sophie sees me approaching, and her smile changes slightly.
It remains professional, but there is a warmth beneath it that was not there when she first entered the lab.
“Good evening,” she says.
“Good evening,” I reply. “You found us.”
“The driver did most of the work.”
“That was the intention.”
She laughs quietly, and when I lean closer to greet her, her fragrance reaches me. It is warm and faintly floral, with something richer beneath it that lands low in my body before I can stop the reaction.
The sudden heat surprises me.
I straighten and keep my expression neutral.
“You look beautiful,” I say.
The words leave me before I consider whether they belong in the conversation.
Sophie’s gaze holds mine. “Thank you.”
The pause that follows is brief, but not brief enough.
I gesture toward the room. “Let me introduce you.”
Preston watches us approach with open interest, while Vivian’s attention is quieter and more exact.
“Sophie Callahan, this is Preston Hale, one of our senior board members,” I say.
“Preston has been with Blackwell longer than most people are willing to admit.”
Preston extends his hand.
“Julian enjoys exaggerating my age when he wants to avoid acknowledging my experience.”
“I don’t need to exaggerate either,” I tell him.
Sophie accepts Preston’s handshake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hale.”
“Preston, please,” he says. “I understand you spent the day dismantling Julian’s defenses.”
“I interviewed him,” Sophie replies.
“Whatever happened to his defenses was incidental.”
Preston laughs, clearly pleased by the answer.
I turn toward Vivian. “This is Vivian Cross, our general counsel.”
Vivian offers her hand. “I’ve read your work.”
Sophie’s eyebrows lift slightly.
“I’m not sure whether that’s reassuring coming from a general counsel.”
“It depends on the article,” Vivian replies.
“The Lockridge series?”
“Reassuring for me,” Vivian says. “Probably less so for Lockridge.”
Sophie smiles. “That seems fair.”
Vivian keeps her gaze on Sophie for another moment before releasing her hand. The appraisal is not hostile, but it is unmistakable. Vivian does not meet anyone without assessing the possible consequences of their presence.
Marcus joins us, and I introduce him as the head of corporate development.
Within minutes, Sophie is speaking with all three of them as though she has attended Blackwell dinners for years.
She asks Marcus about the company’s recent investment strategy, listens closely to Vivian’s explanation of regulatory exposure, and redirects Preston when he attempts to turn a question into a speech.
She does it without forcing the conversation or performing intelligence for the room. She simply pays attention, which is rarer than it should be. I remain beside her longer than necessary.
When a server approaches with champagne, Sophie takes a glass and thanks him. Her fingers curve around the stem as she turns back toward Vivian.
“Do you review every major engineering partnership before it reaches the board?” Sophie asks.
“Only the ones capable of creating an international incident,” Vivian replies.
“That sounds like most technology partnerships.”
Vivian’s mouth shifts into the faintest smile.
“You may survive this dinner after all.”
Sophie laughs, and I find myself watching the movement of her lips instead of listening to Marcus’s response. She glances at me, catching my attention before I can redirect it. Neither of us looks away immediately.
“Are you going to tell me where I’m sitting?” Sophie asks.
I recover first. “Beside me.”
Something flickers in her expression, though her smile remains composed.
“Convenient,” she says.
“For the interview,” I reply.
“Of course.”
Vivian looks between us but says nothing. A server opens the doors to the adjoining dining room, signaling that the table is ready. The other guests begin moving toward their seats, but Sophie remains beside me.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” she asks.
“I’d like to find the powder room before dinner.”
“It’s at the end of the corridor, on the left,” I tell her.
“Thank you.”
She passes close enough that her fragrance catches me again before she disappears through the doors.
I watch the empty corridor for a second longer than I should.
When I turn back, Vivian is still standing near the table, observing me with the same measured focus she usually reserves for contracts containing hidden liabilities.
I hold her gaze. Vivian lifts one eyebrow, then takes her seat without saying a word. Preston waits until Sophie disappears into the corridor before leaning closer to me.
“You’re letting a reporter get awfully comfortable,” he says.
His tone is light, but the warning underneath it is not. I reach for my glass without taking my eyes off him.
“She’s here because we invited her,” I reply.
“That doesn’t mean she needs access to everything.”
“She doesn’t have access to everything.”
Preston glances toward the doorway as Sophie returns, his gaze lingering on her a fraction too long before he looks back at me.
“She does make a strong impression,” he says.
The approval in his voice irritates me more than the warning did.
“Keep the conversation professional, Preston,” I tell him.
I don’t raise my voice, and I don’t need to. His expression shifts just enough to show that he understands the boundary.
“I was making an observation,” he says.
“Then you’ve made it.”
Preston lifts his glass and steps away as Sophie reaches the table. She looks between us briefly, but if she senses anything, she gives no sign of it.
“Did I miss something?” she asks.
“Nothing important,” I answer, pulling out the chair beside mine.
“Dinner’s about to begin.”
Dinner settles into an easy rhythm once the first course is cleared.
Sophie moves through the conversation without appearing to work at it, answering questions when they are directed toward her and drawing quieter members of the table in when Preston begins to dominate the discussion.
I listen more than I speak, though my attention keeps returning to her.
Later, when several guests move toward the adjoining lounge for coffee and drinks, Nathan Cole, one of the younger investors in the Boston fund, takes the empty place beside Sophie.
He is competent, ambitious, and accustomed to being received well.
From across the room, I watch him angle his body toward her, as he leans closer than the conversation requires.
Sophie turns toward him, her shoulders shifting in his direction as she listens.
A faint smile curves across her mouth, and her eyes flicker with amusement at something he says.
Nathan responds by moving closer, encouraged by the attention, while she keeps her glass balanced loosely between her fingers and answers with the easy confidence I have watched her use all evening.