Chapter 9 — My Business Is Mine

“My studio stays mine.”

Ronan leaned back slightly.

“All right.”

“I mean it. No finding me a larger space and presenting it as a surprise. No telling your friends to commission things they don’t need. No buying a hundred thousand invitations for an event attended by twelve people.”

“That would be excessive.”

“You have an expensive face. Excessive seems possible.”

He looked down briefly, hiding a smile.

I continued.

“If my business grows, I want to know why. If it struggles, I want to be able to fix it. I don’t want to discover you’ve quietly removed every difficult thing.”

“I can agree to that.”

“And advice only when I ask.”

“Yes.”

“You answered that very quickly.”

“I don’t consider your business a problem I need to solve.”

The sentence was simple.

I heard it all the way home.

By the time his car stopped outside my building, the ache in my arm had settled into a tender patch.

Ronan walked me to the entrance.

Under the light above the door, he glanced at it.

“If it becomes more painful, have it checked.”

“I will.”

“Will you?”

I looked at him.

“That sounded suspiciously like an opinion.”

“It was concern. You can tell the difference by the absence of instructions to purchase a studio.”

I laughed.

Then the laughter faded.

We stood close enough that I could see a tiny crease beside his mouth.

“I’m glad I asked you,” I said.

“So am I.”

His hand lifted slightly.

Stopped.

“May I?”

I nodded.

He touched my cheek.

Just once, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw.

I leaned into it before I could decide whether that was too revealing.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

Then he lowered his hand.

“Good night, Laurel.”

“Good night.”

Upstairs, I locked my door and stood against it for several seconds.

The apartment was quiet.

My black dress still lay across the bed.

I hung it in the closet.

Then I took off the green one and checked my arm in the bathroom mirror.

A faint bruise was beginning to form.

I photographed it.

Afterward, I called Mia.

She answered with, “Start at the beginning.”

“That may take several hours.”

“I have snacks.”

I told her.

Not every detail.

Enough.

When I reached the part where Bennett had grabbed me, she stopped interrupting.

“Are you safe?”

“Yes. I’m home.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

“No. But thank you.”

She stayed on the phone while I washed my face.

By Sunday morning, the hotel had sent the incident record.

I checked it, corrected one small detail about where I had been standing, and saved the correspondence with the photograph.

Then I ate breakfast.

There was something strangely useful about toast after a night that had felt so enormous.

Ronan called at eleven.

“How’s your arm?”

“Sore. Better than my feet.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I sat on the edge of the sofa.

“Was that the entire purpose of the call?”

“No. Are you free Wednesday?”

“I finish at six.”

“Dinner at seven?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to choose somewhere?”

The question pleased me more than it should have.

“I have a place in mind.”

“Send me the address.”

At the studio on Monday, Mia hugged me before I could put down my bag.

Then she stepped back.

“I’m not going to make a speech.”

“Excellent.”

“But if he contacts you—”

“I’ll tell you.”

She nodded.

We had orders to finish.

By ten, I was trimming title pages and arguing with a printer that had developed strong feelings about heavy stock.

The ordinary work steadied me.

Near noon, Bennett’s name appeared on my phone.

I didn’t answer.

A message followed.

We need to clear up what happened. Charles is taking this much further than necessary.

I read it once.

Then set the phone down.

A second message arrived.

You know I wasn’t trying to hurt you. Things got heated.

Mia saw my expression.

“Him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to read it?”

“No. I’ve got it.”

I took screenshots and saved them with the hotel correspondence.

Then I replied.

Do not contact me about the project. Any questions about my work should come through the review team.

I did not answer the other part.

If he wanted to apologize, he knew the words.

At two, an email arrived from Charles’s project executive.

His name was Peter Lawson.

He asked whether I could provide any retained materials from the Mercer Planning assignment, including the original source files if available.

I checked the archive.

We had the supplied PDFs, correspondence about the layout, and the final production files.

I called Mercer Planning before sending anything.

Their project administrator remembered the job and confirmed where the records should be directed.

Then I prepared a short factual statement.

I listed when we received the files, what services we performed, and which material had prompted my question at the wedding.

I did not speculate about Bennett’s intentions.

I did not describe myself as a land expert.

I attached copies of the relevant files and preserved the originals in the archive.

Mia watched me send the email.

“You look different.”

“I’m wearing the same sweater I wore Friday.”

“That isn’t what I mean.”

I knew.

But I wasn’t ready to turn it into a speech.

“Ask me again after the printer works.”

On Wednesday, I chose a small restaurant near the studio.

Ronan arrived at seven.

His driver remained outside.

I noticed a second man across the street, standing beside a parked car.

At our table, I asked about him.

“Security?”

“Yes.”

“For you?”

“And for anyone with me.”

I put down the menu.

“Is being with you dangerous?”

Ronan’s expression changed.

He didn’t dismiss the question.

“There are circumstances that require precautions.”

“That is a careful answer.”

“It’s an honest one.”

“Would you tell me if there were a specific risk?”

“Yes.”

“Before deciding what I’m allowed to do?”

He held my gaze.

“I would explain the risk. We would discuss the precautions.”

“And if we disagreed?”

“We’d have to deal with that.”

I nodded slowly.

“I don’t need every detail of your life tonight. But I can’t date someone who uses secrets to make decisions for me.”

“I understand.”

I waited.

He added, “There are things I won’t discuss in a restaurant. There are also things you’re entitled to ask if they affect you.”

That was enough for a first dinner.

Not an assurance that his life was harmless.

A place to begin asking real questions.

Later, he told me about the first property his company had renovated.

I told him about renting the studio and discovering the previous tenant had painted over every electrical outlet.

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

I stared at him.

“What?”

“You’ve been withholding that.”

“I laugh.”

“Not around stationery.”

“You take stationery very seriously.”

“It pays my rent.”

We ordered dessert.

I chose one without checking whether he thought I should.

On Friday, Peter called.

The archive files had helped confirm the history of the parcel’s description.

The current investment materials were still being reconciled, and Charles had requested a formal review meeting the following week.

“Would you be available to answer questions about the production dates?”

“Yes,” I said. “About the work we performed.”

“Of course.”

After the call, I wrote the appointment in my calendar.

Then Bennett sent another message.

I’ve seen your statement.

I watched the typing indicator appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

You need to withdraw it before Tuesday.

I looked at the email I had sent.

Dates.

Files.

A description of my work.

Nothing that required an apology.

Another message arrived.

You don’t understand what you’re doing to me.

I placed the phone beside my keyboard.

For years, that sentence would have made me doubt everything I knew.

Now it made the next step clear.

I opened a new email to Peter and attached the messages.

Then I wrote one line beneath them.

My statement is accurate, and I will not be withdrawing it.