He runs his fingers once through the hair at the back of my head before stepping away far enough for me to reach my glasses. Maceo moves the revised terms beside the motion and begins marking the clauses that connect them.
“The review is weak,” he says. “That doesn't make it harmless. We will have to answer it formally, produce medical confirmation, prepare for a board hearing, and control what information they are entitled to receive.”
“Then you handle the procedure,” I say. “Prepare the response schedule and tell me which sections require my decision. I’ll finish the motion tonight and review the supporting medical provisions tomorrow. I am not giving Victor an incomplete answer because he expects me to exhaust myself producing it.”
Maceo looks at me for a moment before nodding. “I’ll separate the deadlines, evidence requests, and arguments. You keep final approval.”
“Exactly.”
He starts dividing the documents into separate stacks.
“Victor had every answer ready,” I say. “Dorian did not.”
Maceo glances up.
“His frustration was not about me rejecting the proposal,” I continue. “It was about what happens after he leaves this room.”
“You think he has someone above him.”
“I think neither of them is behaving like the final authority.” I hand Maceo the page containing the interim voting clause. “Find out who has authority over Dorian’s side of the proposal. His reaction was not about this room.”
“I’ll trace the approval structure.”
“Without contacting anyone tied to the old entities.”
“I heard Thane too.”
I look at the time, then at the remaining pages.
Maceo closes the motion before I can reach for it again.
“You said tonight.”
“I know what I said.”
“And I know what you do when you are angry.”
He places the packet into my briefcase and keeps the revised terms for himself. I let him, though only because he is right.
By the time we reach home, Grayson is waiting near the foyer. He takes my briefcase, sets it out of reach, and catches the end of my tie before I can pass him.
“Sit down, baby. Oliver has called three times about flowers.”
“Approve the peonies.”
Grayson loosens my tie as he walks backward toward the nearest chair, drawing me after him by the silk. “You haven’t even heard the crisis.”
“The crisis is Oliver called three times.”
He pushes me gently into the chair, removes the tie, and drapes it around his own neck before kneeling to work off my shoes.
“The lilies are unavailable,” he says. “Oliver says white peonies might save the centerpieces, but only if we decide tonight.”
“He has his answer.”
Grayson pulls the first shoe free. “You sound very certain for someone who has not reviewed the floral proposal.”
“Oliver can have the peonies.”
