Chapter 5
* * *
The sun was already climbing when the alarm split through the stillness.
I groaned, fumbling across the nightstand until my fingers found the phone, cool against my palm.
Weeks had blurred together. Emails. Investor demands. Late-night messages with Read.
Now April was gone. Half of May, too.
A Falkirk conference reminder sat at the top of my notifications—Thursday May 14th, 2:00 p.m., a deadline the investors watched like vultures.
And below it: a message from Read.
A bright smile split my face—almost six weeks of messages now, my longest “relationship” in a decade, and the man didn’t even know my real name.
We’d been virtually inseparable since the first night—coordinating dinners through messages, flirting over shared shows and movies.
He’d told me things no one else thought to share: that his mother’s name was Rosie, that he once set his kitchen on fire trying to make candy after college, that he wrestled in high school and lost every match but never quit.
Small pieces of a life that made him feel less like a stranger and more like someone I could rely on.
But I hadn’t given him the same.
I’d stayed careful—measured—skirting anything real. I called it protection, survival. But it was fear. Because if he knew what my days looked like—what my life demanded—he’d say what everyone eventually did. Too much. Too intense. A complication no one wanted.
Still, the guilt pressed deeper, the urge to share the ugly details of myself growing stronger by the day.
But not this one. Today belonged to Falkirk.
Read: Morning. Please tell me you slept.
Me: Yes. A couple of hours, actually.
Read: Impressive. Should I alert the Guinness committee?
Me: Only if they have a category for chronic overthinkers.
Read: You’d win gold, hands down.
Me: Rude but accurate.
Read: You have that meeting today, don’t you?
Me: Yeah. It’s going to be a long one. I’ll be mostly offline.
Read: Then I’ll try not to cause trouble while you’re gone. Are you still set on Chinese and home-network setup tonight?
In week two, after a passionate argument about Thai versus Indian, we’d decided to alternate choices. Tonight was my turn.
Me: Of course.
Read: Good. Now go kick some ass.
By 1:57 p.m., we were in Conference Room 3—kicking ass the furthest thing from my mind. My stomach made a horrific noise, rebelling against the four reluctant bites of lunch I’d managed to keep down.
The wall clock shifted—1:59 to 2:00.
My pulse ticked with it.
I took my seat at the head of the table, the plush leather anchoring as much as it confined.
Jennifer settled at my left, posture flawless.
Kevin dropped into the chair at my right, leg bouncing despite his best effort.
David followed, calm in appearance, though the jaw twitch gave him away.
Sarah stood by the console, tablet ready.
I signaled her. She keyed the console, and the screen flared to life. Light swept across the table as the call connected, Falkirk’s logo dissolving into four faces.
Top left: Damien Holt. A beard caught between stubble and intention—trimmed close, dark, deliberately unfinished.
His hair verged on unruly in a way that felt curated rather than careless.
A charcoal jacket, tailored to precision, framed the whole thing like an afterthought he absolutely hadn’t meant to make.
Top right: Nathan Bell. CFO. Broad, balding, with the unyielding energy of a man welded to his position.
Bottom right: Maria Chen. Head of Technical Integration. High cheekbones and higher standards. Rumored to be merciless with inefficiency.
Bottom left: Tessa Morgan. Strategy. Polished and pleasant—amber eyes, smile already in place.
They’re so much better than you, the voice hissed.
“Good afternoon,” Holt said, his voice deep and steady. “Thank you for making time for us.”
“We’ve been looking forward to it,” I answered.
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Ms. Sinclair, your team’s preparation is impressive.”
“I appreciate that. Their work has been central to sustaining Elion’s momentum.”
Bell grinned before I finished. “Well, aren’t you articulate. Most CEOs your age struggle with confidence. Especially women in—”
“That’s not relevant,” Holt interrupted, cooler now.
The shift was subtle—but notable. A tension between them. A lever worth remembering.
“Elion’s clarity streamlines collaboration,” Holt continued. “You’ve saved us a significant amount of time.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
From there, conversation flowed easily—our team performing in perfect sync. I led the line, Jennifer running strategy at my side, Kevin and David backing the technical and legal ground.
And as we delved deeper, new patterns began to form.
Holt—controlled curiosity.
Chen—no-nonsense, mind like a blade.
Morgan—analytical, quick to test fault lines.
Bell—misogynistic and predictable.
Holt shifted slightly, drawing attention as easily as breath. “Ms. Sinclair,” he began, unhurried, “some of this we’ve touched on privately, but I’d like the team to revisit it. Where does Elion see its most meaningful growth in the next twelve to eighteen months?”
“Our focus is depth,” I answered. “We’ve spent two years rebuilding our foundation—reducing technical debt and restoring infrastructure.”
His head tilted. “Depth demands patience. And patience is expensive in our market.”
“Failure is more expensive,” I replied. “We’ve all watched companies chase numbers and crumble under them.”
“True, but caution can look like stagnation,” he argued.
“Only when it lacks intention,” I countered. “Elion’s growth isn’t reactive.”
Something unreadable crossed his features and vanished. “And if Falkirk accelerated that growth? Could you protect your direction?”
Kevin paused mid-note. Jennifer’s stylus stilled.
“We prefer collaboration.”
“Collaboration only works with boundaries,” I replied. “Otherwise, it becomes absorption.”
He angled his head. “You sound like someone who’s had boundaries tested.”
“Or learned to enforce them,” I countered.
For a long, suspended beat, neither of us looked away—two people gauging the terrain between them.
Until Bell shattered it.
“Emma,” he drawled, stretching my first name like taffy.
“Call me Ms. Sinclair,” I corrected.
His mouth twisted. “Come now, if we’re truly discussing partnership, first names shouldn’t be an issue.”
“It’s a matter of respect,” I snapped back.
A vein surfaced at Holt’s temple.
Bell leaned forward, mouth parting for another comment—
But Holt cut in first. “Thank you for the clarification, Ms. Sinclair.”
Bell flushed but held his tongue. Message delivered.
We carried the meeting another thirty minutes—and by the end, hope crackled faintly around us.
“We’ve covered substantial ground,” Morgan said, snapping her binder shut.
Holt inclined his head. “Agreed. There’s real value here. We’ll send another scheduling request within the next forty-eight hours, Ms. Sinclair.”
“We look forward to it.”
Then the screen went black, and the room held its breath.
I stood, the movement loud in the silence, and rolled my shoulders until something cracked.
“Well,” Jennifer said, exhaling. “That was… layered.”
“If Bell ever talked to a male CEO like that—” Kevin began.
“He does,” Jennifer interrupted. “Just not as boldly.”
David snorted. “Maybe they keep him around so Holt looks civilized.”
“If that’s the plan, it’s working,” Jennifer said, the corner of her mouth lifting.
My gaze drifted out the window to the city below. “It doesn’t matter. Bell’s role in this isn’t as important as our preparation.”
Three murmurs of agreement.
“Jennifer,” I said, “draft Phase Two prep. Two routes—Bell present or Bell absent.”
“They’ll be ready by morning.”
“Kevin, send load specs to Maria. David, compile any unseen vulnerabilities.”
“On it,” they both confirmed, already gathering their things.
One by one they filed out, leaving me alone with what came next.
The display blinked alive again—investor names populating one by one, filling the same grid Falkirk had just vacated.
Harrison appeared first—silver hair, wire-rim glasses, gravel in every word. Davidson followed, leaning back casually. Margaret connected last—clean lines behind her, posture elegant.
I straightened. “Good evening.”
“You’re still in the conference room,” Harrison commented.
“Yes. We just finished with Falkirk. I wanted to brief you while the details were fresh.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed in interest. Harrison leaned forward, speakers crackling. Davidson lounged back, one hand draped over the chair.
“They’re interested, and we’ve agreed to a second meeting,” I said. “Their invite should arrive by end of week.”
Davidson’s smirk deepened. “Are we supposed to be excited?”
My stomach dipped. They’re disappointed, an old voice breathed. “I think it’s a positive step. These deals take time. Our timeline is—”
“Running out,” Davidson interrupted.
Air thinned in my lungs. “We—” I tried.
“I can’t believe I have to spell this out, but we need more than calendar invites,” he said, exasperation edging his tone.
Harrison grunted agreement. Margaret stayed silent—more damning than either man.
I lowered my eyes. “I understand.”
“Good,” Davidson said, and his video blinked out.
Harrison followed. Only Margaret remained.
“Emma.” Margaret’s voice softened. “I apologize for Davidson’s tone.”
Something bright flickered in my chest.
“But I do agree—we need something more definitive.”
And the flicker died out, despair settling in the dark. I told you, the chorus hissed in unison.
“I understand. I’ll have a stronger update next time.”
“Thank you, Emma,” she said, and disappeared.
I wished for silence to fill the space.
It didn’t.
And the chorus rose again. Pulling me under.