“They told me about the night you went out,” I continue. “About the drinking. About how out of character it was.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“And they told me about the gala. About Chuck. About you shutting him down.”
A beat.
“That wasn’t about optics,” he says. “It wasn’t calculated.”
“I know,” I reply. “They were clear about that.”
I study him for a moment.
“I’m not bringing this up to punish you,” I say. “Or to reopen anything. I’m telling you because this is part of why I invited you here.”
He waits.
“I’ve been watching you,” I continue. “Not in a suspicious way. In a… noticing way.”
One brow lifts slightly.
“You don’t hover anymore,” I say. “You don’t manage. You don’t disappear. You check in, then you let things be.”
His mouth curves faintly. “I hadn’t clocked all of that.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s kind of the point.”
Silence stretches—not uncomfortable. Considered.
“You also didn’t tell me about the board,” I add. “I heard it from Alex.”
His gaze sharpens. “I didn’t want it to feel transactional.”
“It didn’t,” I say. “It felt… clean.”
That seems to surprise and please him at the same time. He nods once.
“I’m not saying everything’s fixed,” I continue. “It’s not. But this—”I gesture between us, the table, the room. “—feels different. And I needed to say that out loud.”
He studies me for a long moment.
“I’m not trying to get back to what we were,” he says finally. “I don’t think that version survives scrutiny.”
“And this one does,” I say.
“Yes,” he replies. Simple. Certain.
I pick up my fork again.
“So,” I say, “eat your potatoes before they get cold.”
A corner of his mouth lifts.
“Yes, ma’am.”
And just like that, we’re back at the table.
Not unchanged.
