9. Declan
Declan
“Carl, if you say the hotel called again, I’m going to assume the universe has developed a personal vendetta.”
Carl pauses in my doorway with a leather portfolio tucked under one arm and the careful expression of a man deciding how much truth his employer deserves before coffee.
“The hotel called again.”
“Wonderful.”
“They confirmed both suites.”
“Great.”
I look down at the client brief on my desk and decide, for the third time in ten minutes, that professional travel should come with fewer opportunities for personal catastrophe.
Two hours on the road with Talia is dangerous enough.
A client presentation in another state, followed by dinner, followed by adjacent hotel suites, feels less like logistics and more like the universe testing whether I have learned anything from the last week.
Evidence suggests I have not.
Carl nods and adds a page to the folder on my desk. “Revised itinerary. The driver will be downstairs in twenty. Ms. Wynn confirmed she’ll meet you in the lobby.”
That sounds like her.
Talia has spent the last two days weaponizing professionalism with such precision that I’m beginning to suspect she could survive a natural disaster by organizing it into action items. She arrives early, leaves exactly when she says she will, documents every decision, and treats our shared workspace like neutral territory under international observation.
She also doesn’t look at me unless necessary, which should make things easier. Instead, I notice every time.
Carl clears his throat.
I look up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
“It was extremely close to nothing.”
“You’ve worked for me too long to be this bad at lying.”
He considers this, then wisely says, “The lobby. Twenty minutes.”
“Coward.”
“Professional.”
Everyone has adopted that word lately, and I dislike it more each time.
By the time I reach the lobby, Talia is already there with a laptop bag over one shoulder and a carry-on beside her.
She wears a dark green dress beneath a tailored blazer, simple and professional, the kind of outfit that should not make a man remember hotel sheets, morning light, and the exact sound she made when she laughed against my mouth seven years ago.
It does anyway.
She looks up from her phone as I approach.
“Good morning,” she says.
It’s polite and measured. Completely inappropriate considering the fact that the last time we were alone in my office, she gave me a list of rules for entering my son’s life.
“Good morning,” I say. “You look prepared to win.”
“I’m prepared to work.”
“Same thing, if you’re doing it correctly.”
Her mouth almost curves, then she glances toward the revolving doors. “How long is the drive?”
“Two hours and fifteen minutes, assuming traffic behaves.”
“So three.”
“Your optimism is inspiring.”
“I have work to finish in the car.”
Naturally. “Of course you do.”
Her gaze returns to mine, and for one brief second I see the flicker of everything she is refusing to let into this lobby with us.
Flynn. The rules. The fact that we are about to spend one night away from the life she has built so carefully.
The fact that she probably hates every mile that will put her farther from him.
“Mrs. Smith has him?” I ask quietly.
Her expression shifts a fraction.
“Yes.”
I nod. “Good.”
The word seems to catch her off guard. Maybe because I don’t ask more. Maybe because I want to. Maybe because wanting and not doing has become most of my personality this week.
The driver takes our bags, and we slide into the back seat of the black sedan with a space between us that feels both necessary and insulting.
Talia opens her laptop immediately. I open the client brief.
For the first twenty minutes, we do a convincing impression of two professionals on a business trip.
By the twenty-first, the silence becomes less convincing.
The highway stretches ahead, gray and bright under the late morning sun. Buildings thin into office parks, then into tree-lined exits and long stretches of road edged by summer green. The car smells faintly of leather and the coffee Carl insisted I take, but forgot to make drinkable.
Talia types steadily beside me, her attention fixed on the screen. Every few minutes, her thumb moves over the edge of her phone, the movement so quick most people probably wouldn't notice.
I do.
She's checking for messages about Flynn, and I make myself look back at the road instead of asking. Respecting her boundaries is apparently more difficult than negotiating multimillion-dollar deals.
Growth, it turns out, is exhausting.
“The client mentioned Apex again,” she says without looking up.
“Did they?”
"Yes. Rebecca forwarded the prep notes. Apparently, Apex approached the client two weeks ago."
“Julian’s nothing if not persistent.”
“That doesn’t concern you?”
“It irritates me.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No. Concern implies I believe he’ll win.”
She finally looks at me then, and the expression in her eyes is too sharp to be amusement but too warm to be disapproval.
“You’re very confident.”
“I’ve been accused of worse.”
“I’m sure.”
“Frequently, and with passion.”
That almost gets me a smile, and I’m pathetic enough to enjoy the near miss.
Talia looks back at her screen. “Underestimating him seems unwise.”
“I’m not underestimating him. I know exactly what Julian is. Loud, ambitious, resentful, and convinced every room owes him more attention than it gives him.”
“That sounds personal.”
“It is personal. That doesn’t make it frightening.”
She studies me for a moment. “You really aren’t worried.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Julian wants leverage. He wants access. He wants people to believe he’s already won before the game has started.” I close the brief on my lap. “That works on people who are afraid of looking weak. It doesn’t work well on people who are too irritated to be impressed.”
Talia’s mouth twitches. It’s small, brief, and gone almost as quickly as it appears.
But real.
“You plan to defeat him with irritation?”
“It has served me well.”
“I’m not sure that belongs in the risk memo.”
“Probably not. Sloane edits out most of my best instincts.”
“Sloane sounds wise.”
“She married Marcus, so her judgment is questionable.”
This time, Talia does smile. Not fully or freely, but enough that the car changes by half a degree. I look out the window before I can ruin it by wanting too much.
The client site sits just outside a small city in another state, far enough from Crossridge to require the overnight stay but not far enough to justify Talia’s anxiety about being away from Flynn.
Anxiety rarely cares about justification.
I know that now. I know it because she checks her phone before we step out of the car, again in the elevator, and once more while the receptionist collects our visitor badges.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Convincing.”
Her eyes narrow. “Flynn is fine.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t.”
“You were about to ask.”
“I was about to offer coffee.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Fine. I was about to ask and then offer coffee.”
That loosens something in her more than it should. Or maybe I’m simply becoming greedy for evidence that she doesn’t hate me.
The presentation room is all polished wood, muted carpet, and windows overlooking a river that cuts through the city in a slow silver line.
Three client executives wait at the far side of the table.
Helen Darrow, the CEO, is in her late fifties, sharp-eyed and direct in a way I like immediately.
Her CFO has the cautious expression of a man who has been burned by enthusiastic projections before.
Their general counsel looks at Talia’s risk packet like it might bite.
Good. It probably can.
Helen shakes my hand first, then Talia’s. “We appreciate you making the trip.”
“Happy to,” I say.
Talia gives me the briefest glance. Fine. Happy is generous, and present is accurate.
Helen gestures for us to sit. “Before we begin, I’ll be direct. Apex has been persistent.”
The irritation arrives exactly on schedule.
“They do enjoy circling a room,” I say.
Helen smiles faintly. “Julian Pierce called personally.”
“Of course he did.”
“He implied Crossridge might be overextended.”
Talia sets her folder on the table with quiet precision. “Because of the Foundation expansion?”
Helen’s gaze sharpens. “That was part of it.”
The room stills, though not dramatically. Just enough that I feel the cold creeping in. Talia sits beside me, shoulders relaxed, expression calm, but I know better now. Calm, for her, is often armor.
I lean back slightly. “Julian has always struggled with other people’s momentum.”
“Is that your official assessment?” Helen asks.
“No. My official assessment has footnotes.”
That earns a laugh from her CFO. Talia doesn’t laugh, but I can feel the exact effort it costs her not to, and that’s somehow worse. Then she opens her packet, and the room is hers.
I have seen Talia argue. I have seen her parry, deflect, and cut through weak language with a single raised eyebrow.
But watching her present is different. She’s not performing competence.
She’s simply competent in a way that makes everyone else sit up straighter.
She walks them through the risk model, not with flash or unnecessary flourish, but with enough clarity that by the tenth minute, the general counsel has stopped looking suspicious and started taking notes.
She ties the integration timeline to the Foundation protections.
She explains where Apex might attack confidence.
She outlines communication vulnerabilities without making them sound catastrophic.
She does not oversell Crossridge. She does not underestimate Julian.
She gives the client the one thing every executive in a room like this wants most and trusts least.
A reason to believe the plan can survive contact with reality. By the time I step in to address deal structure, the hardest work is already done. Which is annoying and impressive.