“I purchased Merry Band of Maids.”
She blinked. “You what?”
“It was a logical acquisition,” I continued, attempting warmth. “I own property across three states. Internalizing cleaning services reduces liability and increases efficiency.”
She stared at me.
“And Tripp no longer has authority over you.”
Silence.
“And all employees working within Renault-affiliated facilities will receive benefits and insurance.”
Her expression did not brighten. It did not soften. It . . . shuttered.
“You bought my company,” she said slowly.
“I eliminated your vulnerability.”
“That wasn’t your vulnerability to eliminate.”
I reached for her again. She stepped back. Why?
“I did this for you,” I said, confused by her tone. “You will not be reassigned. You will not be threatened. You may work where you choose.”
“You bought my boss,” she said.
“I removed him.”
“You bought him.”
The distinction, to her, mattered.
“I paid more than market value,” I said carefully. “This was not opportunistic.”
“Of course it wasn’t.”
There was something in her voice now, something like disbelief.
“I thought you’d be relieved,” I admitted.
She laughed softly. But there was no humor in it. “I don’t know what I am.”
I reached for her hand. She let me take it this time, but she did not squeeze back.
“Come to dinner with me tonight,” I said quietly. “Allow me to explain fully.”
Her eyes searched my face. For what, I was not certain.
“You’re not going to just . . . manage this away?” she asked.
“No.”
A pause.
“Fine,” she said at last. “We’ll go out.”
Agreement. But not warmth.
