It wasn’t difficult. I was exhausted. Running a company on the edge of massive expansion while quietly preparing for war does not leave a woman feeling fresh.
He guided me to the sofa, poured me a glass of my favorite cabernet, and rubbed my shoulders with attentive hands. If I had not known what lay beneath the performance, I might almost have admired the craft.
“I’ve been worried about you,” he said softly.
I looked down into my glass. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re carrying too much. The company is exploding, the press is circling, investors are watching every move. That kind of visibility creates risk, Vivien.”
He used my name the way a surgeon uses a sedative.
I let my voice come out thin. “What kind of risk?”
He exhaled, as if reluctant to burden me.
“Litigation. Regulatory scrutiny. Founder liability. One breach, one bad actor on staff, one investor who decides they weren’t adequately informed—you could be exposed personally.”
He stood and crossed to his briefcase.
My pulse slowed.
There it was.
He returned with a stack of papers clipped neatly together and placed them in my lap.
“I’ve been thinking about how to protect us,” he said.