Chapter Twelve — Morning Headlines
540 Words
The press release hit at seven a.m.
Aria saw it before she got out of bed — a news alert on her phone, then four messages from Lydia, then a call from her mother that she let ring out because she wasn't ready. She read the announcement twice, clinical and measured as these things always were, translating the corporate language into its real meaning: Damien was moving. And Meridian was only the first step.
Her father called at seven thirty.
"Have you seen it?" No greeting.
"Yes."
"Voss." The name landed like something placed deliberately on a table. "He's been positioning for months. Quietly, strategically." A pause. "I underestimated the timeline."
"What does it mean for us?" Aria asked.
"It means we respond. Today." His voice had the quality it got when he had already decided everything and was informing rather than consulting. "I need you in the office by nine. We're convening with legal and the board."
"I'll be there."
She showered and dressed and stood in her kitchen drinking coffee, and the thing she noticed — with the uncomfortable clarity of someone being honest with themselves — was that her first instinct when she saw the headline had not been alarm about her family's business.
It had been worry about Damien.
About what this meant for the space between them. About whether last Saturday at the river had been the last uncomplicated morning they would get.
She set down her coffee and addressed herself firmly.
She was a Sinclair. She had responsibilities. People — employees, partners, her family — depended on the stability of what her father had built, and Damien Voss was moving against that stability with clear intent.
She could not afford to be the girl who sat beside him on a bench and felt something when their fingers touched.
She picked up her bag and went to the office.
The boardroom was tense in the contained way of people who were angry and being professional about it. Her father stood at the head of the table, Richard Sinclair in full command mode, and walked the team through a response strategy with the focused precision of someone who had navigated crises before and emerged the stronger for them.
Aria took notes. Asked useful questions. Contributed where she could.
Three hours in, during a break, Lydia appeared at her elbow.
"You look like you haven't slept," Lydia murmured.
"I slept fine."
"You look like you're in two places at once."
Aria kept her voice very low. "Not now, Lydia."
Lydia looked at her for a moment with those quiet, observant eyes. "Have you talked to him?"
"He called last night. To warn me before the announcement."
Something moved across Lydia's face — not quite surprise. "He warned you."
"Yes."
Lydia was quiet for a beat. "That's either very decent or very calculated."
"I know," Aria said.
That was the problem. She knew both things were possible. She knew Damien well enough now to believe in his decency — and she knew his world well enough to understand that decency and strategy were not always opposites.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She didn't need to look to know who it was.
She left it unread until evening.
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