“It’s a start,” Davidson said. “But when’s the contract?”
“The email specifies a preliminary agreement within thirty days,” I answered. “Full execution within two months, assuming diligence on both sides confirms fit. Holt doesn’t make casual promises.”
“Can they move faster?” Davidson asked.
My eyes threatened to roll to the back of their sockets, but I held them still.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Margaret cut in before I could respond. “Thirty days is well within the window we discussed with Emma.”
“These things take time,” Harrison added. “Every step can’t be forced, or we’ll create new problems.”
I inhaled slowly through my nose, letting it out the same way. “We’ll hit the deadlines they’ve outlined and also push wherever we can without undermining our position. Encouraging Falkirk to accelerate beyond a written, already-accelerated timeline has the potential to make us look reactive. We need to tread carefully.”
“That’s your problem,” Davidson followed. “Not ours. We just want to see results.”
The old voice in the back of my mind tried to rise.You’re failing them. Again.
Fear,I labeled. Not law.
“We’ll provide a full update once Falkirk sends the preliminary agreement. Within the thirty days they’ve set. Anything earlier is noise, not substance.”
Silence stretched as they thought things over.
“I’m satisfied with that,” Margaret determined. “This is more progress than we expected at this stage.”
“Fine,” Davidson griped. “But I want a check-in in two weeks. Even if it’s brief.”
“We can do that.”
“Good,” he said, then cut the connection without a goodbye.
Harrison followed a moment later.
Margaret lingered long enough to say, “Well done, Emma” before her square vanished, too.
The screen went black, taking my mind with it.
They still don’t trust you,the inner voice noted.
“Maybe not,” I said quietly. “But they’re not pulling out. Not yet.”
I closed the laptop and let my hand rest on it for one extra second, then pushed away from the table.
Laughter met me before I even reached my office.
Kevin sprawled in one of the guest chairs, tie loosened, a glass of whiskey balanced in his hand. David leaned against the window, another tumbler catching the late-afternoon light. Jennifer perched on the arm of the second chair, heels abandoned beside it, bare toes flexing against the rug.
“There she is,” Kevin said, lifting his glass. “Our terrifying overlord.”
“Fearless leader,” Jennifer corrected, grinning.
David tipped his tumbler in my direction. “Nicely done today.”
Kevin crossed the room and pressed a glass into my hand. “To Emma,” he declared. “And to Holt doing in five minutes what Davidson said was impossible.”
Our glasses touched with a bright, cleanclink. The whiskey burned across my tongue, then settled warm and heavy in my stomach.
“That email was something,” Jennifer said. “I’m debating printing it on linen to frame in the lobby.”
