“I’ll tell them.” Her tone made it clear she was humoring me, nothing more. “Your dinner will be in the refrigerator.”
I was almost out the door when small faces appeared around the dining room doorway. Carson and Cory, the twins.
“Da?” Carson’s voice wobbled. “Are you leaving again?”
I went to them, knelt down, forcing a smile. “Just for a bit. I’ll be back tonight, and we’ll have the entire weekend. I promise.”
“You always promise.” Cory’s eyes were far too serious for a six-year-old.
“And I always come back, don’t I?”
He nodded, not quite convinced.
I ruffled his hair and stood before either of them could ask more questions I couldn’t answer.
The Lounge looked like the kind of place where deals were being made, and everyone pretended not to notice each other. Dark wood paneling, dim lighting, booths arranged for privacy rather than socializing.
I spotted Theresa. She sat in the back corner booth, shoulders curved inward like she was trying to take up less space. Even from across the room, I could see how exhausted she looked.
She saw me approach, and my chest ached.
“Patrick.”
Just my name, but it carried everything.
I slid into the booth across from her, resisting the urge to move to her side and pull her against me. “Tell me.”
She took a breath and laid it out in precise terms. The CFIUS rejection. Arthur’s deliberate sabotage. Military research notes from five years ago, included without context to make the deal look like a national security risk.
“He did it so the deal would look suspicious. And it worked,” she said, her fingers white-knuckled around her wine glass.
My anger mounted with every word. This was personal for me too—Duncan MacLeod was my contact, my introduction, my professional reputation on the line.
“Have you talked to Duncan?”
“He’s nervous, but willing to give me a chance to fix it before he walks.”
“And the board meeting?”
“Two weeks from yesterday.” Her laugh was sharp enough to cut glass. “Hardly enough time.”
“Bloody bastard. He won’t get away with this.” I signaled the waitress and ordered a Scotch. “There’s got to be a way to get the deal approved.”
“Oh, I can get the decision reversed. What I don’t have is time. An appeal would take months. Duncan will walk long before then, and the board will move to someone else.” Her voice dropped to barely audible. “How are we even supposed to do this, Patrick? Run two companies, raise kids... it’s...”
She trailed off, but I heard the unspoken word.Impossible.
I reached across the table and took her hand. Her fingers were freezing.
“I know it’s a lot,” I said. “But Christ, I missed you. Even with everything falling apart in Edinburgh, there wasn’t an hour I didn’t think of you.”
Her eyes filled, the first crack in her armor. “I thought about you too. Constantly. And then I’d feel guilty because I should have been focused on the company, on?—”
“Stop.” I squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to justify feeling something good in the middle of all this.”
A tear escaped, and she wiped it away impatiently. “It’s too much. The company, the kids, Arthur’s betrayal, trying to make this—us—work... I don’t see how we manage it.”
I understood her doubt. I felt it too in those quiet moments between crisis and action. The sheer impossibility of our situation, the logistics of blending our families while fighting corporate wars on multiple fronts.
