7. Declan
Declan
By the time we’re pulled back into the room to finalize logistics, the decision has already been made.
“Talia Wynn will have access to your office starting this afternoon.”
I look up from the integration schedule in front of me and decide, immediately, that Graham has chosen violence.
He says it with the same calm authority he uses for quarterly forecasts, board strategy, and the occasional emotionally inconvenient truth.
Across the conference table, Marcus does not react, which means he already knew.
Adrian stirs his coffee with the serene patience of a man who has lived long enough to watch younger men walk directly into consequences and call it planning.
Talia, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. That’s the problem with her. She’s exceptionally good at meeting difficult situations head-on and refusing to let anyone see what they cost her.
Her hands rest on the closed folder in front of her, fingers relaxed, shoulders straight, face composed into the kind of professionalism that could survive a market collapse and probably has.
If someone entered the room at this exact moment, they would see a consultant prepared to lead a difficult workstream and an executive being assigned space for the project.
They wouldn’t see the woman who told me six years of my son’s life had happened without me, and they wouldn’t see the man still trying to breathe around that fact.
“My office,” I say.
Graham meets my stare without apology. “It’s the most practical option.”
I lean back in my chair. “I’m fascinated to hear how you arrived there.”
“It has space for both teams, secure document access, a conference table, and direct proximity to legal and finance.”
“Sounds like reasons to use a conference room problem.”
“Conference rooms are already booked for the task force subgroups.”
“Naturally.”
Marcus turns a page on his tablet. “You also have the largest private office on this floor.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“It wasn’t admiration.”
“I choose to receive it that way.”
Talia looks down at her notes, but not quickly enough. The corner of her mouth moves, barely, and something in my chest responds before I can stop it. A small, stupid lift. A reflex built from one night seven years ago and three days of watching her try not to smile.
Then she stills again, and the moment disappears as quickly as it arrived.
I hate that I caused that too—the carefulness, the constant awareness behind every reaction, as though any expression might be used against her. I’ve been angry since yesterday morning. Hurt. One wrong word away from saying everything badly.
But looking at her now, watching the faint tension along her jaw and the way she refuses to let her knee bounce beneath the table, I hate myself a little for adding to the weight she's already carrying.
Not enough to make me noble. Apparently, fatherhood has not made me instantly reasonable. But enough to notice.
Graham folds his hands on the table. “The first milestone is seventy-two hours from now. We need revised integration terms, Foundation allocation protections, Apex exposure contingencies, and a clean communications plan tied to investor response.”
Sloane, seated beside Marcus with a laptop open in front of her, looks up at that. “Clean-ish.”
Graham’s mouth tightens. “Clean-ish?”
“With Julian involved, clean is aspirational.”
“Comforting,” I mutter.
Sloane’s gaze moves to me. “It was meant to be accurate.”
“Marcus has infected you.”
“My wife was accurate long before me,” Marcus says.
Sloane gives him a brief look, and for one second the room warms around them in a way I resent on principle. It's one thing to survive your closest friend falling in love in public. It’s another thing to watch him do it comfortably while your own personal life lies in pieces under the table.
Adrian clears his throat softly. “Can we return to the matter at hand before this becomes matrimonial testimony?”
“Gladly,” Talia says.
Her voice is steady, and she’s said less than twenty words since sitting down, and I hate that I’ve counted.
Rebecca Lawson glances between us from Ashcroft’s side of the table. She’s pretending not to notice the tension, which is polite and entirely useless. Everyone notices. They simply don’t know the shape of it.
Except Marcus.
Probably Graham.
Definitely Adrian, because Adrian notices dust motes with moral implications.
Sloane too, though she has the mercy not to stare.
Talia opens her folder. “From Ashcroft’s perspective, the priority is separating the integration risk into three workstreams. Compliance, vendor transition, and public-facing Foundation timeline.”
Her voice slips into the room cleanly, professional and controlled, and the meeting adjusts around it. That is one of her gifts. She doesn’t demand attention. She earns it by making the next step obvious.
It irritates me, but it also makes me want to listen.
“The Foundation timeline cannot move,” Graham says.
“I understand that,” Talia replies. “But the supporting infrastructure can’t be imaginary. If the announcement commits to expansion before the integration can support it, then Julian doesn’t need to sabotage anything. Crossridge hands him the weakness.”
Sloane nods once. “She’s right.”
I look at Sloane. “You say that too easily.”
“I enjoy accuracy.”
“Everyone in this company has become hostile.”
“You’re part of the problem,” Marcus says.
“Regrettably.”
Talia’s pen pauses against her notepad. She doesn’t look at me. But I see it anyway. The brief twitch at the edge of her mouth, the reaction she catches before it can become anything visible.
I should leave it alone. Obviously.
Instead, because I am apparently committed to poor choices, I say, “Careful, Ms. Wynn. If you keep almost smiling, people may start to question your neutrality.”
Her eyes lift to mine. For half a second, I see the woman from Singapore. Not guarded. Not careless. Just present. A flash of warmth beneath the armor.
Then the shutters come down.
“I’m not neutral,” she says. “I’m here to protect the work.”
The work. That's what matters to her. Not Crossridge. Not me. Not the wreckage we're both still trying to navigate around.
The realization shouldn't sting.
Graham, because he is either merciful or determined to prevent bloodshed on company property, moves the meeting forward.“You’ll work out of Declan’s office,” he says. “Marcus and Adrian will coordinate the rest. Sloane will handle external pressure.”
I look at him. “We’re not revisiting this.”
“No.”
“You’re just moving ahead.”
“Yes.”
Marcus looks up. “That was the decision.”
“I’m aware.”
Talia closes her folder with careful precision. “I’d prefer a neutral workspace.”
There it is. Not a refusal, exactly, but distance carefully wrapped in professional language. Graham looks at her, and something in his expression changes just enough to make me realize he understands more than I would like him to.
“So would I,” he says. “But we don’t have one that meets the security requirements and availability window.”
“Then I can work remotely for part of it.”
“No,” Marcus says.
Her gaze shifts to him.
He doesn’t blink. “We need live coordination. Apex is looking for timing gaps. Remote work slows response and creates avoidable document exposure.”
“I can handle secure access.”
“I know.”
The simplicity of that answer seems to catch her off guard.
Marcus continues, voice even. “This isn’t about your ability. It’s about speed. We need the two people who understand the deal architecture and the risk model in the same space until the revised terms are locked.”
The room goes quiet. Talia looks back down at her folder, and I watch her process the same truth I did fifteen minutes ago. This is not optional. It’s also not personal. Except of course it’s personal, because the universe has apparently developed a taste for cruelty and efficient scheduling.
Adrian sets his coffee down. “It may help to remember that proximity is not the same as intimacy.”
I look at him. “Did you practice making that sound reassuring?”
“No.”
“It shows.”
A faint smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “Good.”
Talia exhales softly through her nose, and for a second it sounds almost like a laugh.
My attention shifts to her before I can stop it. She feels it too. I know she does because her fingers tighten around her pen, just once.
Then Graham stands. “Good. We’ll reconvene at three. Use the next couple of hours to set up access and document controls.”
That’s all it takes. Chairs scrape back, conversations breaking as people reach for phones and files, already shifting into whatever comes next before we’re pulled back in.
Marcus pauses beside me.
“No.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was considering it.”
“Don’t.”
Marcus looks toward Talia, then back to me. “You need to keep your head.”
“My head is fine.”
“Your expression disagrees.”
“My expression has been through a lot.”
His mouth twitches. “So has hers.”
I go still. Marcus doesn’t soften the words, but there’s no judgment in them either. That might be the only reason I don’t tell him to mind his own marriage.
“I know,” I say.
It comes out quieter than I intend.
Marcus studies me for a moment, then nods once. “Then act like it.”
He walks away before I can answer, which is wise. Or annoying. Possibly both.
By the time the room empties, Talia is gathering her laptop and folders with the careful efficiency of a woman determined not to drop a single thing, literal or otherwise. She senses me before I speak. Her shoulders tense slightly.
I hate that too.
“My office is this way,” I say.
“I know.”
Of course she does. She probably memorized the layout before breakfast because Talia Wynn appears to believe preparation is a moral obligation.