Sheila studied the draft. “Why didn't you offer this sooner?”
“Because my accountant told me how much personal liquidity I would lose.”
“And now?”
“I have decided it matters less than keeping a promise the company already made.”
“Easy to say when you have plenty left.”
He accepted that. “It is easier for me. That's why I can't call it a sacrifice and ask you to applaud.”
Sheila wrote two questions in the margin and handed the proposal back. “Bring me answers. And let the workers vote on whether it's acceptable.”
That evening Dante went to Selene's apartment with takeout and a bag of groceries. She let him in wearing wool socks and an old university sweatshirt. Her desk had vanished beneath papers. The living room smelled of roasted garlic and old books.
“You've come prepared to bribe me with dinner,” she said.
“Dinner and dish soap.”
“The second is more persuasive.”
He cooked while she worked. He still burned the first clove of garlic. She said nothing, merely placed the pan beneath the tap and started again. His smile was sheepish, and she found herself wanting the evening to stay small.
But after they ate, he told her about Sheila and the reserve proposal. She listened. Then she asked how much of his future life was still tied to the legacy he was trying to leave.
“Too much,” he admitted.
“Do you want to keep all of it?”
“No. I used to think I would die if I wasn't the man who gave orders. Now I wake up and realize I haven't given anyone an order for two days. Mostly the world keeps turning.”
“Sometimes there's a staircase.”
She laughed softly. Then she put down her fork.
“Dante, I don't want to become an evaluator of your soul. Every time you do a good thing, I can see you wondering whether I approve. That isn't fair to either of us.”
He looked at her across the small table. “I know. I'm trying not to.”
“I didn't fall in love with the man who paid the most to fix a problem. I fell in love with the man who learned to ask a question and live with the answer.”
He reached for her hand. “Then answer one for me.”
“Depends on the question.”
“Could we look for a home together? Not my old apartment. Not a place that comes with rules set by dead men. Somewhere you can keep your institute keys and all the books in the hallway.”
She blinked. It was an offer she had imagined and resisted. They would need separate accounts, clear understandings about money, and the freedom to disagree. It was not impossible. For the first time, she wanted to consider it without rehearsing escape routes.
“After the hearing,” she said. “I want one decision at a time.”
He nodded. “After the hearing.”
On Thursday morning the restructuring board assembled to review the Harbor Street property. The independent manager circulated appraisals, repair projections, proposed financing, tenant-rights summaries, and counsel's opinion on the disputed community-use agreement. The directors could not simply gift corporate property because a powerful former executive had become remorseful. They had obligations to creditors, employees, and other stakeholders.
Talbot submitted a higher purchase price conditional on obtaining the site free of community-use claims and accelerating possession. A coalition of neighborhood lenders and nonprofits offered to explore a purchase preserving the housing and the ground-floor room, but their funding was not yet committed. The difference between a real offer and a hopeful plan sat in the middle of the table.