"He has the numbers," I said quietly. "That is enough."
Damien sighed. "Yes, he has the numbers. But so do the rest of the board."
My lips thinned into a fine line.
"He'd have to convince the board the numbers were fake," he continued. "And the only way to do that is with proof. And suspicion isn't proof."
"So what? We just pretend everything is fine?"
"Yes. That's exactly what we do."
I chewed on my bottom lip. "We can't keep pretending we're only colleagues."
"No," he agreed. "We can't."
"Do we come clean? Make an announcement?"
He looked down at his shoes. "I don't know."
"That's not—"
"I know," he stopped me, holding up a hand. "I know it isn't what you want to hear. I know it's frustrating, but honestly it may not matter after today…"
My stomach dipped.
Jennifer.
I glanced at the clock. "Fuck, I have to go."
"I'll leave here in twenty," he called after me.
But I didn't stop.
My mind already on the next battle.
"We're here, Ms. Sinclair," Harold announced as we approached Elion. The familiar glass facade. The logo I'd designed on a napkin six years ago, mounted above the entrance in brushed steel.
Through the window, I watched a woman walk past with a stroller, a bike messenger weave between taxis, a man in a suit check his phone and frown at whatever he saw.
Normal people. Normal days.
No idea that twenty floors up, I was about to detonate a friendship.
"Ms. Sinclair?" Harold asked, louder this time.
"Yes, sorry," I said, shaking my head, and reaching for my phone.
Me: Just made it.
Damien: Good. I'll be there in a bit.
I stepped out onto the sidewalk, the summer air warm against my cheeks.
The Elion building loomed above me. A stranger.
Six years ago, I'd signed the lease on this place with shaking hands and a credit card that was almost maxed out. Jennifer had been with me that day, standing in the empty lobby, both of us trying to imagine it filled with desks and people and purpose.
"We're either going to make history," she'd said, "or go bankrupt in spectacular fashion."
