14. Declan #2
Graham steps closer, stopping just within reach. “You don’t have to get it perfect,” he says. “You just have to be consistent.”
“That matters.”
“It matters more than anything you say.”
I nod once.
Marcus pushes away from the table. “For what it’s worth, you didn’t hesitate in that room.”
I meet his gaze. “There wasn’t anything to hesitate about.”
“Good,” he says. “Because that part doesn’t get to change.”
Adrian picks up his coffee again.
Graham gives my shoulder a quiet squeeze as he moves toward the door. Marcus follows, already pulling his phone from his pocket. Adrian lingers half a second longer, his gaze steady in a way that feels less like scrutiny and more like confirmation, then nods once and leaves.
The door closes behind them, and for the first time since the meeting started, the room is quiet enough to think.
The hallway outside has returned to its usual rhythm. Phones ring behind closed doors, assistants move between meetings with practiced efficiency, and somewhere farther down the corridor Marcus is already on another call. Business, as always, refuses to wait for anyone's personal life to catch up.
By the time I reach my office, Carl has left a fresh cup of coffee on my desk along with a neatly organized stack of messages. The airplane kit still sits on the credenza exactly where I left it that morning, a quiet reminder that not every important decision waiting for me involved contracts.
I have barely settled into my chair when there's a soft knock at the door.
Sloane steps inside with a folder tucked beneath one arm and the expression of someone who has been thinking in increasingly unpleasant directions.
“You have five minutes?”
“For you, apparently.”
“Wise answer.”
She closes the door behind her, which tells me whatever she has come to say is worse than the meeting version.
“I’ve been looking at the leak,” she says.
“I assumed.”
“The photo was never meant to create financial damage. Not directly.”
I lean back in my chair. “What was it meant to do?”
“Emotional damage.” She sets the folder on my desk but doesn’t open it right away. “If someone wanted to weaken the merger, there are cleaner ways—analyst rumors, investor leaks, regulatory whispers. This was messy, personal, and designed to force a reaction.”
“Talia.”
“And you.” Her gaze holds mine. “And Graham, through the Foundation. And Marcus, through the old Apex history. Whoever did this wanted to make the business problem feel like a family problem.”
“It is a family problem.”
“Yes,” she says. “Which makes it effective.”
I look toward the credenza before I can stop myself. The bag from the hobby shop sits there quietly. Sloane notices, because Sloane misses very little. To her credit, she says nothing about it.
“Marcus thinks Julian is testing us,” she continues. “I agree. But I also think he’s watching where we move first.”
“You think the photo was bait.”
“I think it was a flare.” Her voice stays calm, but there’s nothing soft in it. “He wants to see who runs toward it.”
Talia. Flynn. The Foundation. Me. None of us was the real target. We were simply the fastest way to inflict as much damage as possible. The realization comes over me with unsettling clarity, and for the first time since the article went live, my anger narrows into something useful.
“What do you need from me?”
Sloane’s expression shifts by a degree, approving but not surprised. “Pay attention. Don’t assume the obvious target is the only one. If Julian is using personal pressure, he’s counting on emotion making us sloppy.”
I glance again at the bag on the credenza. Emotion has already made me plenty of things. Sloppy can’t be one of them.
Marcus comes by later, shortly before two, and says even less than Sloane.
He stands in my doorway with his jacket unbuttoned and his phone in one hand, looking like a man who has already had three conversations he disliked and expects the fourth to be no better.
“You think it’s him?” I ask.
“I think Julian wants us looking at the wrong fire.”
“Comforting.”
“I try.”
He steps inside and lowers his voice. “Nothing ties Apex directly to the account. That means he either didn’t do it or he paid someone smart enough to make sure we couldn’t prove he did.”
“You believe the second.”
“I believe Julian enjoys being underestimated.”
“So do you.”
Marcus smiles without humor. “That’s why I recognize it.”
He leaves me with that.
By evening, the deal documents are finished.
They sit on my desk in a clean stack, each page reviewed, revised, cross-checked, and ready for signature.
A month ago, that would have been enough to satisfy me.
The document would have represented progress, movement, leverage, the kind of tangible proof that a complicated thing could be brought under control through intelligence and discipline.
Tonight, I stare at the blank signature line and feel nothing close to satisfaction. My name has always opened doors. Contracts, partnerships, access, approval. A signature from me can shift money, move timelines, and make an uncertain room exhale.
It can’t sign me into my son's life any more than it can convince Talia that I'll still be here tomorrow. One afternoon with a wooden airplane doesn't earn me the right to ask for more, no matter how much I want it to.
The city lights cut sharp lines across my desk as the office grows darker around me. Most of the floor has emptied, leaving only the faint hum of the building and the occasional sound of Carl moving beyond the door. My phone sits beside the documents, face down, untouched for nearly twenty minutes.
Eventually, I pick it up.
Talia’s name is already near the top of my messages because restraint, apparently, does not prevent a man from opening a thread he has no business staring at.
I type before I can talk myself out of it.
I miss him. And you.
The words sit there, too honest for a screen. I read them once, twice, then delete them.
The phone goes black in my hand, and for a moment I sit there with my chest tight and the unsigned documents in front of me, understanding with painful clarity that wanting to be better is not the same thing as being patient enough to prove it.
So I start smaller.
The airplane kit is still waiting on the credenza. I take it with me, though home is not where I go.
Talia’s street is quiet when I park near the corner just after eight.
The houses are close together, porch lights glowing against the soft dark, the ordinary sounds of evening settling around me.
A dog barks somewhere down the block. A television flickers blue in a front window.
Someone’s wind chime moves gently in the breeze.
I sit in the car longer than necessary, one hand resting on the bag in the passenger seat.
Part of me wonders if leaving it on the porch is thoughtful or simply another way of asking for something Talia isn't ready to give.
The answer comes a moment later. I'm not asking for anything.
Not a conversation. Not an invitation. Not even credit.
I just want Flynn to have the airplane. Somehow, that feels like the right place to start.
I walk to her porch with the bag in one hand and my keys in the other, careful not to linger near the windows. No note. No card. No name. Just the wooden airplane kit, the paints, and the ridiculous stickers. I hope Flynn likes it.
I set the bag beside the door and straighten slowly, my hand lingering for a moment longer than it needs to, and for one reckless second, I imagine knocking.
Flynn would answer with another impossible question about airplanes.
Talia would stand behind him, surprised, cautious, probably wondering why I couldn't leave well enough alone.
I don't give either of us that choice. I turn and walk back toward the car, each step feeling a little heavier than the last. At the end of the path, I glance back once.
The bag is still resting beside the front door, exactly where I left it, and I find myself hoping it reaches Flynn the same way I hope everything else will someday, without asking anything in return.
Then I get into the car and drive away.