14. Declan
Declan
I buy the airplane kit because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.
The shop sits two blocks from Crossridge, wedged between a bookstore and a café that has never once made coffee strong enough to justify its prices.
I’ve passed it hundreds of times without going inside.
This morning, I stop in front of the window because there’s a wooden airplane display near the door, and for one ridiculous moment, I stand there like a man negotiating with a storefront.
Five minutes, I tell myself.
Ten minutes later, I’m still inside, staring at shelves of model kits with the grim focus of someone making a decision far more complicated than it should be.
The boxes are labeled by age range, skill level, number of pieces, and, in one alarming case, “parental patience recommended.” I pick up one kit, put it back, pick up another, then reject it because the wings look too fragile.
A third has too many tiny pieces, and while Flynn is clearly brilliant, I’m not interested in giving Talia seventy-four reasons to curse my name before dinner.
The woman behind the counter watches me for a while before taking pity.
“Gift?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“Six.”
“Beginner level, then.”
“He knows a surprising amount about airplanes.”
She smiles. “Six-year-olds usually do.”
I accept the correction without argument, mostly because she’s right.
Flynn does know a surprising amount, but he’s also six, and six-year-olds apparently believe glue is both a tool and a lifestyle.
I choose a wooden airplane kit with larger pieces, a small set of washable paints, and a pack of stickers with clouds, stars, and tiny lightning bolts.
The cashier bags everything carefully.
“Need a card?”
I look at the small display beside the register, Birthday, Congratulations, Thinking of You. None of them fit.
“No card.”
She doesn’t ask why, and I appreciate that.
By the time I reach Crossridge, the bag sits on the passenger seat beside me like evidence.
I carry it upstairs myself instead of asking Carl to take it, partly because I don’t want to explain it and partly because I’m not ready to let anyone else touch it.
Carl looks up when I pass his desk, his gaze dropping briefly to the bag before returning to my face with impressive professional restraint.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You considered it.”
“I considered several things.”
“Continue not saying them.”
He nods, but his mouth twitches as I go into my office. The airplane kit stays on the credenza all morning.
I pretend not to notice it while I review the revised merger language. I pretend not to glance at it while Marcus sends over updated risk notes. I pretend not to think about Flynn sitting at a craft table, frowning with fierce concentration because a wing refused to dry straight.
Pretending, I’m discovering, is far less effective once you know you’re doing it.
At ten, Graham calls everyone into the smaller executive conference room, the one without the long glass wall and with enough privacy to make difficult conversations feel less like theater.
Talia is already there when I arrive. She has a notebook open in front of her, a pen resting precisely along the spine, and the calm expression of a woman determined to survive the room by giving it nothing extra to use against her.
She doesn’t look at me immediately. When she finally does, her gaze is brief and carefully controlled, but it isn't cold. Somehow, that small distinction is enough to keep me in my chair.
Graham starts without ceremony. “We continue the deal quietly. No public statements beyond the child privacy language Sloane already prepared. No comment on family relationships, no confirmation, no denial. The Foundation keeps operating. The merger keeps moving. We do not let Julian turn a leaked photograph into the center of our business.”
Beside Marcus, Sloane nods once. “The less we feed the speculation, the faster the public-facing story loses oxygen. The legal team has already sent takedown notices on the reposts using the child’s image. Some will comply. Some won’t. We keep the message boring and consistent.”
“Boring and consistent,” Marcus says. “My favorite kind of crisis response.”
Sloane’s mouth curves faintly. “That is deeply untrue.”
“It sounded responsible.”
“It sounded like something Adrian would say.”
Adrian, seated at the end of the table with his glasses low on his nose, looks up from the printed financial schedule. “I approve of boring.”
“Of course you do,” Marcus says.
The exchange eases the room by half an inch, and I’m grateful for it even though I’d rather swallow glass than say so.
Talia’s pen moves once across the page as she listens, processes, builds contingencies in that quiet way of hers, and I can see the toll of it beneath the professional composure.
Yesterday’s panic hasn’t left her. It’s simply learned to sit still.
Graham’s gaze moves between us. “This only works if everyone stays aligned.”
Talia lifts her eyes. “My firm will continue supporting the task force under the existing confidentiality terms.”
“Good.”
“I want additional language around minors in any Foundation-related communications.”
Sloane is already typing. “Agreed.”
“And staff reminders,” Talia adds. “Not accusatory. Just clear. No unauthorized photos of visiting children, no casual posting from events, no sharing anything that could identify a minor.”
Tessa, who has joined the meeting for the Foundation portion, leans forward. “I’ll handle that with Allison. The school is already reviewing their side too.”
“Thank you,” Talia says.
Her voice holds, though only barely. I want to reach across the table and take her hand, but I don't. That isn't restraint for its own sake.
It's understanding, finally, that what Talia needs from me isn't another promise.
She needs consistency, the quiet kind that's built through a hundred ordinary choices until one day she no longer has to wonder whether I'll still be there.
The meeting continues for another half hour.
We talk through the deal timeline, the Foundation expansion, the board’s likely concerns, and the media language that will keep the focus on privacy rather than speculation.
Everyone is careful. Not fragile, exactly, but aware that the wrong word in the wrong place could make Talia retreat behind walls I’m only beginning to understand.
When the meeting breaks, Graham asks me to stay behind.
Talia leaves with Tessa, the two of them speaking quietly near the door before disappearing into the hallway, and I watch until it closes behind them.
Marcus doesn’t follow. Neither does Adrian, and the room settles into a different kind of quiet, less about the meeting we just finished and more about the one that hasn’t started yet.
Graham looks between the three of us before speaking. “Stay,” he says, though none of us has moved.
I set my notebook down on the table but don’t sit again, and neither does anyone else. For a moment, no one speaks before Graham shifts his weight slightly, his gaze steady on mine.
“There are deals you can renegotiate,” he says. “Family isn’t one of them.”
I let that sit. “You say that like a man who learned the hard way.”
“I say that like a man who confused control with protection and nearly lost both.”
Tessa. Emma. The life he almost walked away from because distance felt safer than risk.
Marcus exhales beside me. “He’s not wrong.”
“I’m aware.”
“That’s not the same as understanding it.”
I glance at him. “Then say what you actually mean.”
His gaze holds mine a second longer. “You don’t get to do this halfway. Not with her. Not with him.”
“I’m not trying to step back.”
“You already did.”
I don’t argue with that.
Adrian sets his coffee down on the table with deliberate care. “From a legal standpoint, this situation is no longer hypothetical.”
Marcus huffs a quiet breath. “That’s one way to put it.”
Adrian doesn’t look at him. “Your personal involvement has been made public. Whether it was intentional or not is irrelevant. The exposure exists, which means the responsibility does as well.”
“I’m aware of the responsibility.”
“Are you?” Adrian asks mildly. “Because in this case, responsibility isn’t a statement. It’s sustained behavior over time, under pressure, without deviation.”
Graham’s mouth curves faintly. “That’s his way of agreeing with Marcus.”
“I prefer precision,” Adrian says.
“Of course you do.”
The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable, just deliberate and measured.
Graham looks back at me. “What do you want?”
There’s no point pretending I don’t understand the question.
“I want them,” I say.
The honesty doesn’t surprise any of them. Marcus nods once, Adrian doesn’t react, and Graham studies me for a long second.
“But I’m not taking it,” I add.
That earns a shift, small but real.
Marcus’s gaze sharpens. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I’m not pushing her. Not on this. Not on Flynn. Not on anything she’s not ready to give.”
“That’s restraint,” Graham says. “Not a plan.”
“It’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse.”
Marcus considers that. “Maybe. Or maybe it just makes things slower.”
“I’m fine with slower.”
“Are you?” he asks. “Because slower means she decides everything. Timeline. Access. Trust. All of it.”
“Yes.”
The word comes easier than it should.
Adrian folds his hands loosely in front of him. “Then your margin for error is effectively zero.”
“That was already the case.”
“Now it’s visible,” Adrian says. “Which tends to make mistakes more expensive.”
Graham nods once. “He’s right about that.”
“I’m not planning on making any.”
Marcus’s mouth twitches. “Everyone plans that.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re the one who has to prove it.”
The room quiets again, not because the conversation is over, but because everything that needed to be said is already on the table.