“You’re welcome. For both.” He paused, and I could almost see him leaning closer to the phone. “So, tomorrow at two?”
“Tomorrow at two,” I confirmed. “I’ll see you then.”
“Looking forward to it. Goodbye, Theresa.”
“Goodbye, Patrick.”
I ended the call and sat in my car, staring at the phone. My heart was hammering against my ribs. What had just happened? A business call, certainly. But it felt like more than that. It felt like a current running under the surface, pulling me toward something I wasn't sure I was ready for.
What kind of widow does that make me?
I looked up in the rearview mirror, expecting to see shame. Instead, I saw color in my cheeks. A spark in my eyes that hadn't been there ten minutes ago.
Possibility.
Not romance—it was far too soon for that. But connection. Understanding from a man who had walked through the fire and come out the other side.
I pulled my hair back into a sleek chignon, securing it with more pins than necessary. No softness today. The board needed to see a leader.
The board meeting was scheduled for nine o’clock. In precisely three hours, Arthur Vance would present his vision for CarideoTech’s future—a future that conveniently excluded me. But I had my own presentation, my own vision. And thanks to Patrick McCrae’s fax, I had a letter of intent from Duncan MacLeod that might just save everything Marco and I had built.
The band on my finger caught the light as I reached for my mascara, a sharp ache piercing my chest. I traced the ring with my thumb.
I’m fighting for us, Marco. For everything we built.
A small voice from the hallway interrupted my thoughts.
“Mommy?” Paris stood in the doorway, her dark hair tangled from sleep, clutching her favorite stuffed elephant. “Are you going to work?”
I softened instantly, kneeling to her level. “Yes, baby. I have an important meeting today.”
She nodded solemnly, processing this information with her characteristic directness. “Will you be home for dinner?”
“I will,” I promised, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And we’ll have ice cream for dessert.”
She nodded, satisfied with this arrangement. “Aunt Shelly says you’re fighting for Daddy’s dream.”
My throat tightened. “That’s right.”
“You’ll win,” Paris said with absolute certainty. “Daddy always said you were the smartest.”
I pulled her into a fierce hug, inhaling the sweet scent of her strawberry shampoo. “I’m going to try, baby. I’m really going to try.”
The CarideoTech boardroom felt colder than usual. Arthur Vance, seated directly across from me, had the reptilian stillness of a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He didn’t have to wait long.
He began his presentation with a tone of deep, manufactured concern, painting a picture of a company adrift since Marco’s death. He spoke of “leadership instability” and “market hesitation.” Then came the killing blow.
“Our investors’ confidence is shaken,” Arthur announced, his eyes sweeping the room before landing on me with faux sympathy. “Their continued support is contingent on bringing in me as CEO. This would allow Theresa the space to focus on her family, while I will handle the day-to-day pressures.”
He was framing his coup as a kindness. The condescension was so thick I could taste it. He was using my grief, my motherhood, as a weapon to pry my fingers from the company I had built.
I let the silence hang for a beat before I stood. “Thank you, Arthur. A compelling work of fiction.”
A few board members shifted uncomfortably. Arthur’s polite mask tightened.
“But while you’ve been pursuing hypotheticals,” I continued, connecting the projector, “I’ve been securing our future.”
My first slide appeared: the logo for MacLeod Precision Manufacturing.
