Now April was gone. Half of May, too.
A Falkirk conference reminder sat at the top of my notifications—Thursday May 14th, 2:00 p.m., a deadline the investors watched like vultures.
And below it: a message from Read.
A bright smile split my face—almost six weeks of messages now, my longest “relationship” in a decade, and the man didn’t even know my real name.
We’d been virtually inseparable since the first night—coordinating dinners through messages, flirting over shared shows and movies.
He’d told me things no one else thought to share: that his mother’s name was Rosie, that he once set his kitchen on fire trying to make candy after college, that he wrestled in high school and lost every match but never quit.
Small pieces of a life that made him feel less like a stranger and more like someone I could rely on.
But I hadn’t given him the same.
I’d stayed careful—measured—skirting anything real. I called it protection, survival. But it was fear. Because if he knew what my days looked like—what my life demanded—he’d say what everyone eventually did. Too much. Too intense. A complication no one wanted.
Still, the guilt pressed deeper, the urge to share the ugly details of myself growing stronger by the day.
But not this one. Today belonged to Falkirk.
Read: Morning. Please tell me you slept.
Me: Yes. A couple of hours, actually.
Read: Impressive. Should I alert the Guinness committee?
Me: Only if they have a category for chronic overthinkers.
Read: You’d win gold, hands down.
Me: Rude but accurate.
Read: You have that meeting today, don’t you?
Me: Yeah. It’s going to be a long one. I’ll be mostly offline.
Read: Then I’ll try not to cause trouble while you’re gone. Are you still set on Chinese and home-network setup tonight?
In week two, after a passionate argument about Thai versus Indian, we’d decided to alternate choices. Tonight was my turn.
Me: Of course.
Read: Good. Now go kick some ass.
By 1:57 p.m., we were in Conference Room 3—kicking ass the furthest thing from my mind. My stomach made a horrific noise, rebelling against the four reluctant bites of lunch I’d managed to keep down.
The wall clock shifted—1:59 to 2:00.
My pulse ticked with it.
I took my seat at the head of the table, the plush leather anchoring as much as it confined. Jennifer settled at my left, posture flawless. Kevin dropped into the chair at my right, leg bouncing despite his best effort. David followed, calm inappearance, though the jaw twitch gave him away. Sarah stood by the console, tablet ready.
I signaled her. She keyed the console, and the screen flared to life. Light swept across the table as the call connected, Falkirk’s logo dissolving into four faces.
Top left: Damien Holt. A beard caught between stubble and intention—trimmed close, dark, deliberately unfinished. His hair verged on unruly in a way that felt curated rather than careless. A charcoal jacket, tailored to precision, framed the whole thing like an afterthought he absolutely hadn’t meant to make.
Top right: Nathan Bell. CFO. Broad, balding, with the unyielding energy of a man welded to his position.
