Chapter 7 #2
“We did our best to anticipate the questions you hadn’t had time to ask at our last meeting.”
Chen gave a single, precise dip of her chin. “We appreciate that.”
Holt’s smile stayed contained, but real. “You’ve given us a lot to work with,” he said. “In a good way.”
We rose, and I extended my hand again. “Thank you for coming in person. I look forward to continuing the conversation.”
“As do I.”
Sarah appeared at the edge of the room, ready to escort them out.
“Sarah will walk you down,” I announced, already feeling a fraction of the tension leak from my shoulders.
Chen and Morgan followed Sarah toward the door, but Holt didn’t move.
He cleared his throat lightly. “Ms. Sinclair? If you have a minute.”
“Of course,” I answered stiffly, heartbeat tripping. This wasn’t in the script.
The door closed behind the others. The room shrank to vent-noise, glass, and the space between us.
“That was impressive.” His tone had shifted, less formal now. “Your team is strong. They take their cues from you.”
“I’m lucky to have them,” I answered, the truth coming easily. “They did the heavy lifting.”
His brow lifted slightly. “But you guided the room. They don’t move like that on their own.”
Heat prickled at the back of my neck. I resisted the reflex to brush it off. “Thank you,” I managed instead.
His expression shifted. “I also owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For Mr. Bell’s behavior during our last meeting. It was out of line. The way he addressed you was unacceptable. You deserved better than that from my team.”
Something answered low inside me. I swallowed it back. “I appreciate you saying that.”
A moment stretched, my heartbeat fluttering wildly behind my ribs.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Until next time, Ms. Sinclair.”
“Until next time, Mr. Holt.”
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut as the room exhaled.
I stood there for a moment, hand resting on the back of my chair, letting the still spread across the table. Two months. An actual path. Something that looked dangerously close to the miracle Davidson had demanded and insisted didn’t exist.
My phone buzzed where it sat by my notes.
From: The Desk of Damien Holt
Subject: Falkirk & Elion—Discussion Recap
I opened it.
Elion’s clarity, cohesion, and readiness were evident and appreciated.
Alignment… accelerated two-month execution schedule… Elion’s foundation is technically strong and strategically agile. We see high potential in this partnership.
Specifics. Dates. Actions. Legal review starting next week. Documentation deadlines. Preliminary agreement targeted in thirty days.
Five minutes. That was how long it had taken to arrive. Maybe less.
The familiar chorus stirred—not vicious but wary. Too fast. Too good. They’re setting you up.
“Not now,” I muttered.
Another knock, and Sarah leaned in. “Ms. Sinclair, the investors are on a conference call. They’re asking for an update.”
Of course they were.
“Patch them through to Conference Room 2,” I said. “I’ll take it there.”
* * *
The smaller conference space felt less grand, but the moment my laptop connected and three rectangles populated the screen, the old pressure slid right back into place.
“Good afternoon.” I forced brightness into my tone.
“Emma,” Harrison rumbled, inclining his head. “You look… tired.”
“Long day,” I replied. “But productive.”
Margaret’s face appeared next. Calm and composed, framed by the pale light behind her. Davidson joined last, camera slightly too close, smile stretched a little too wide.
“We wanted to touch base,” Margaret said. “How did today go?”
“It went well,” I said, keeping my tone even. “Falkirk and Elion are aligned on structure and pace. I believe this will become a strong partnership.”
“Believe,” Davidson repeated, dragging the word out. “Last time we spoke, I believe we asked for something more concrete than belief.”
I hit the forward button on Holt’s email, punctuating the keystroke with a mental fuck you.
“I’ve just forwarded you an email from Damien Holt. It outlines Falkirk’s intent, their internal timeline, and an accelerated execution window.”
A brief shuffle, the muted click of a trackpad as they pulled it up on their end.
“Hm,” Harrison murmured. “This is… encouraging.”
“It’s a start,” Davidson said. “But when’s the contract?”
“The email specifies a preliminary agreement within thirty days,” I answered. “Full execution within two months, assuming diligence on both sides confirms fit. Holt doesn’t make casual promises.”
“Can they move faster?” Davidson asked.
My eyes threatened to roll to the back of their sockets, but I held them still.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Margaret cut in before I could respond. “Thirty days is well within the window we discussed with Emma.”
“These things take time,” Harrison added. “Every step can’t be forced, or we’ll create new problems.”
I inhaled slowly through my nose, letting it out the same way.
“We’ll hit the deadlines they’ve outlined and also push wherever we can without undermining our position.
Encouraging Falkirk to accelerate beyond a written, already-accelerated timeline has the potential to make us look reactive. We need to tread carefully.”
“That’s your problem,” Davidson followed. “Not ours. We just want to see results.”
The old voice in the back of my mind tried to rise. You’re failing them. Again.
Fear, I labeled. Not law.
“We’ll provide a full update once Falkirk sends the preliminary agreement. Within the thirty days they’ve set. Anything earlier is noise, not substance.”
Silence stretched as they thought things over.
“I’m satisfied with that,” Margaret determined. “This is more progress than we expected at this stage.”
“Fine,” Davidson griped. “But I want a check-in in two weeks. Even if it’s brief.”
“We can do that.”
“Good,” he said, then cut the connection without a goodbye.
Harrison followed a moment later.
Margaret lingered long enough to say, “Well done, Emma” before her square vanished, too.
The screen went black, taking my mind with it.
They still don’t trust you, the inner voice noted.
“Maybe not,” I said quietly. “But they’re not pulling out. Not yet.”
I closed the laptop and let my hand rest on it for one extra second, then pushed away from the table.
Laughter met me before I even reached my office.
Kevin sprawled in one of the guest chairs, tie loosened, a glass of whiskey balanced in his hand. David leaned against the window, another tumbler catching the late-afternoon light. Jennifer perched on the arm of the second chair, heels abandoned beside it, bare toes flexing against the rug.
“There she is,” Kevin said, lifting his glass. “Our terrifying overlord.”
“Fearless leader,” Jennifer corrected, grinning.
David tipped his tumbler in my direction. “Nicely done today.”
Kevin crossed the room and pressed a glass into my hand. “To Emma,” he declared. “And to Holt doing in five minutes what Davidson said was impossible.”
Our glasses touched with a bright, clean clink. The whiskey burned across my tongue, then settled warm and heavy in my stomach.
“That email was something,” Jennifer said. “I’m debating printing it on linen to frame in the lobby.”
“Please do,” Kevin said. “Right next to Davidson’s face.”
“Speaking of,” David added, “did you send it to him?”
“I did,” I said. “He read it, shrugged, and asked if they could move faster.”
Kevin groaned up at the ceiling. “I hate that man.”
“Get in line,” I muttered.
“So what now?” David asked. “Is pushing Falkirk’s timeline even an option?”
“No,” Jennifer said immediately. “That would be… ill-advised.”
“Suicide,” Kevin translated.
I agreed. “They get their update when Holt sends the agreement. Not before. If Davidson wants a call in two weeks, I can read the same email out loud.”
“And if he throws a fit?” Kevin asked.
“Then he throws a fit.” I shrugged with false confidence. “We’re not blowing a viable partnership so he can feel powerful for fifteen minutes.”
David’s brows rose, then settled. “Fair enough.”
My phone buzzed against my palm.
Read: How did it go?
The whiskey warmth shifted sideways, making room for the easier heat that came with that question. I set my glass on the desk and typed.
Me: The meeting itself went really well. Holt’s team committed to a written two-month timeline. They sent a recap email within five minutes.
Read: That sounds incredible. I knew you’d crush it.
Me: Investor call after was… less great. They keep moving the goal line. Want proof I can make Falkirk move faster than they already promised to.
Read: Of course they do.
Across the room, Kevin’s voice drifted over.
“What are ballet flats?” he asked Jennifer. “Like… tiny ballet shoes? Because all I see online are ribbons and bruised toes.”
“Oh, my god,” Jennifer muttered. “Give me your phone.”
Me: Asking Falkirk to accelerate again would wreck our leverage, but they don’t care. They just want speed.
Read: Then you don’t ask. You’re in the trenches. They’re not. Trust your gut.
Me: That’s the plan.
Read: Anything I can do from this end?
My fingers hovered as I considered.
Me: Not really. Just… keep texting me like this.
Read: I can absolutely do that. How’s the internal chorus?
Me: Quieter than last time. I used your five-senses trick before the meeting. It worked.
Read: That makes me very happy. We can kick around investor strategies on our date tomorrow, if you want. Two birds. One extremely charming stone.
My stomach dipped, nerves and anticipation tangling. Tomorrow. Marina’s.
Me: That sounds good.
Read: Perfect. Unfortunately, work is yelling at me. I’ll message you later, okay?
Me: Okay. Good luck.
The screen dimmed and I turned back to the three of them.
“All right,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Show me the shoes.”
Jennifer held up her screen. Simple white ballet flats with a small bow at the toe. “It’s for the wife,” she said, pointing her chin at Kevin. “Her birthday is on Sunday.”
Kevin leaned in, squinting. “Are we sure those aren’t just slippers?”
“They are shoes,” Jennifer said through her teeth. “They’ll be here by Saturday. I’ll send you a venmo request for $30.”
“$30 for slippers?” he asked incredulously.
“They aren’t slippers,” Jennifer and I said in unison.
David shook his head into his glass. “I am not drunk enough for this conversation.”
I let their banter roll over me, easy and familiar. Out the window, the city edged toward evening, towers rimmed in gold before they slid into blue.
The investors still didn’t really believe in me. They probably never would.
But Holt’s timeline sat in my inbox. My team sat in my office. Read’s messages sat in my pocket, full of tools and a kind of steady faith I hadn’t decided what to do with yet.
For the first time in a long time, that thought didn’t feel like weakness.
It felt like the start of something else entirely.
Not safety. Not certainty.
Just… possibility.