Chapter 7
* * *
Morning came harsher than I expected, last Thursday’s meeting still clinging to the edges of my thoughts.
The meeting invite had landed in my inbox Saturday morning, right at the edge of the forty-eight-hour window I’d promised the investors. Small. Ordinary. Just another calendar block in a wall of them.
Except this one said:
Location: Elion Headquarters.
Attendees: Damien Holt, Maria Chen, Tessa Morgan, Nathan Bell
Date and Time: Thursday, May 21st, 10:00 a.m. EST
Description: Conference Request
Sarah confirmed within minutes. Jennifer went straight into war-room mode. David printed so many packets our office manager ordered more toner. Kevin, traitor that he was, remained suspiciously calm and told anyone who would listen about the new beta blockers his wife had “strongly suggested.”
As for me, I was… okay.
And okay is enough, Read would say.
I opened the door to the main conference room. One final inspection. Screens tested, name placards lined up, cables tucked out of sight, and fresh legal pads waited with pens spaced in neat intervals.
My lungs found the rhythm before my mind caught up. One. Two. Three. Again. Another of Read’s tricks—breath as anchor.
Sarah orchestrated the whole thing with that easy efficiency of hers, confirming arrival times with one hand while adjusting the room lighting with the other.
By nine-thirty, we were ready.
Or close enough to pretend.
Margaret’s pen tapped somewhere in the back of my skull. Three beats. Pause. Three beats. The old panic stirred, stretching claws.
No.
I reached for the trick Read had given me—one of those late, anxious nights when my mind wouldn’t stop and he’d stayed on the other side of the screen until it did.
Five things you can see, Read’s words echoed in memory, low and steady. Four you can feel. Three you can hear.
I obeyed.
Glass wall. City skyline beyond it. Jennifer’s tablet, angled just so. David’s neatly stacked folders. Kevin’s half-drunk coffee, a brown ring drying at the base.
The edge of the table under my palm. The smooth fabric of my dress against my knee.
Heat radiating from the laptop fan by my wrist. The cool strip of skin at the back of my neck left exposed by my ponytail.
The projector humming above. Shouts from people on the street.
Laughter down the hall. The tapping in my head softened.
The wild, jittering rush inside me eased from hurricane-force to something I could stand upright in.
“Are you all ready?” I asked.
Jennifer, razor-focused in charcoal, her notes layered with contingencies and sub-contingencies.
Kevin with charts stacked in color-coded order, faint scruff where he’d clearly prioritized slides over shaving.
David turning pages with that silent, methodical assurance that made me believe in contracts again.
Three shoulders straightened. Three murmurs of agreement.
“Let’s give them a show.” David closed his folder with a muted click.
I stepped into my persona and onto the stage. “Then we do this.”
The intercom crackled. “Ms. Sinclair?” Sarah’s voice. “Your guests have arrived.”
“Thank you, Sarah. Please bring them in.”
Heels approached down the hall in an unhurried rhythm. Low conversation. No raised tones. And one notably absent pompous baritone.
No Nathan Bell.
Across the table, Jennifer glanced at me. One less variable.
The door opened.
Sarah’s polished smile appeared first. “It was a pleasure meeting you.” She stepped aside.
Tessa Morgan entered first. Her presence read as warmth at first glance, but anyone paying attention could see the cunning woven through it.
Honey-blond hair twisted into a sleek knot.
Amber eyes that took in the room and filed it, fast. Her charcoal slip dress was billowy but still professional; everything about her aimed at ease, not display.
A small scuff marked the back of her heel.
Human, I noted. Good.
Maria Chen followed. Dark hair cut clean at her shoulders.
Ivory jacket over a crimson blouse. Small gold earrings that stayed perfectly still when she moved.
Her focus swept the hardware on the table, quick and precise, like she’d already taken it apart in her head and reassembled it for efficiency.
Then Damien Holt stepped through the doorway.
He filled it. Tall—half a head above Kevin, at least—with broad shoulders that tapered to a lean waist, the kind of frame that made expensive tailoring look inevitable rather than aspirational.
Dark hair caught between deliberate and unruly.
A short beard framing a jaw drawn in clean lines.
The navy suit moved with him like it had learned better than to resist. He carried the easy assurance of someone accustomed to rooms turning when he entered—and the self-control not to lean on it.
What struck me more was his focus. Alert but not hunting. He looked like a man present in the moment, not one ticking off meetings on a mental list before dessert.
“Ms. Sinclair.” He crossed the room in long, confident strides.
I met him halfway, bracing for the usual contest. The grip, the squeeze, the silent question. His hand closed around mine with firm pressure, then released at the exact right moment. No test. No performance.
“Mr. Holt,” I replied evenly, disguising my surprise. “Welcome to Elion.”
“Thank you for hosting us.” Holt’s attention traveled the room once, cataloging the screens, the table layout, the view, before returning to me. “There’s a lot of energy here,” he added. “It’s clear you’ve built something real.”
“We’re proud of what we’ve done. We’re hoping you’ll see why.”
“I already do,” he answered simply, then shifted so I could introduce my team.
“Chief Strategy, Jennifer Capolli. CTO, Kevin Smith. Legal, David Broughton.”
He shook each hand in turn, attention clean and direct. No lingering on Jennifer. No dismissing David when he heard “legal.” No wrinkling his nose at the faint scent of spit-up emanating from Kevin.
He took the chair across from mine. Maria and Tessa took seats on either side of him.
Sarah reappeared at the edge of the room. “Can I get anyone coffee? Water?”
Holt opened his portfolio. “Coffee, please.”
“Water,” Morgan replied with an easy smile.
“Water’s fine,” Chen added bluntly.
Sarah slipped out, and the room settled into a low hum: the rustle of paper, portfolios snapped open, pens scribbling across paper.
Sarah returned a minute later with a tray—coffee for Holt, water for Morgan and Chen. The smell of fresh coffee cut through the stale air as she distributed them.
He took a sip, gave a brief nod of approval, and set the cup within easy reach. “Shall we?”
“That sounds lovely,” I agreed, settling into place.
The presentation found its rhythm quickly. The numbers lived in my bones by now; I didn’t have to chase them. I focused on the arc instead—what Elion actually solved, why retention mattered more than shiny acquisition graphs, where we’d chosen depth over empty scale.
Jennifer slid in at the right beats, layering strategy over narrative, tightening the picture.
Kevin translated the architecture into something a non-engineer could track without losing the nuances that gave us an edge.
David came in when the path hit legal ground, turning risk into something Falkirk could live with instead of a reason to walk.
Morgan’s questions cut cleanly along lines of resourcing, sequencing, operational strain. Chen pressed on failure states and redundancy. Holt mostly watched, stepping in when he wanted a data point clarified or a slide revisited. His comments were brief, focused. No grandstanding.
By the time David closed his section, the air had shifted. Less skepticism. More attention.
Morgan folded her hands, fingertip touching the edge of her folder. “Next steps, then,” she said. “Assuming alignment holds, what’s your anticipated timetable to full partnership execution?”
Before I could answer, Chen flipped through her notes. “Given the integration scope, I’d estimate roughly six months from sign-off to full deployment,” she said. “Longer if Falkirk needs additional internal approvals or vendor review.”
Six months.
Out of the corner of my eye, Jennifer’s stylus paused mid-note. Kevin’s jaw tightened once before easing.
But I kept my expression even, preparing myself for the battle ahead.
“I don’t anticipate it taking that long,” Holt said, coming in before I opened my mouth.
Chen angled slightly toward him. “You don’t?”
He took an unhurried sip of coffee, then set the cup down.
“Elion has already done the difficult work,” he said.
“The foundation is clean. On our side, if we commit to a single path, we can fast-track internal review. If intent is mutual, we can have a signed partnership in two months. Possibly sooner.”
Two months.
For a second, things went dark. Then sound came back into focus: the projector, the faint rush of the vents, someone shifting in their seat. Finally light.
Then Morgan’s shocked expression. “That seems… optimistic,” she said.
“Optimistic,” Holt agreed, “but realistic. Elion was built for speed. So was Falkirk. We can match pace.”
“We can meet that timeline,” I confirmed. My voice came out confident—a lie I gripped like a lifeline.
“Our documentation is ready. Compliance work is complete. Once Falkirk finishes their internal review, we can move immediately,” Jennifer added, smooth and certain.
Chen considered. “That lines up. No significant obstacles from my side.”
“Good,” Holt said. “Then we’re aligned on pace.”
“Yes,” I affirmed. “We are.”
A few more questions on data access, escalation paths, oversight structures. Nothing we hadn’t already accounted for in some spreadsheet or note packet finished our meeting.
And when Morgan closed her folder, there was thought in her face, not polite dismissal. “This was thorough,” she commented. “You’ve clearly anticipated Falkirk’s needs.”