She disappears just as quickly as she arrived, and I let out a long breath, running a hand down my face.
Of course it’s already started. Emails. Missed calls. Probably some urgent nonsense that can’t wait five minutes.
Halberd never sleeps. And apparently, neither do I.
“Declan Keating!” Lionel Truss’s voice barrels through the corridor before I’ve even rounded the corner.
He’s standing with Cormac, both of them grinning like foxes with bellies full of stolen hens. Lionel claps a hand on my shoulder before I can brace for it.
“Where’s my bloody dinner invite, eh?” he booms, shaking my hand with the kind of force that threatens to dislocate a joint. “Cormac here’s been bragging about your wife’s catfish for days. I had to ask Ginny if she binned our invite with the Waitrose leaflets.”
I let out a thin laugh, pocketing both hands just to keep him from wrenching my arm off again. “Doubt there’s enough catfish in the country to feed both you and Doyle. Man damn near cleared our fridge.”
They both erupt in laughter like it’s the best joke they’ve heard all year. This is how these lot bond, ribbing and bravado dressed up in business talks and deals being struck. I’ve learned to play along, even when I’m two steps behind, wondering what fresh chaos they’ve brought with them.
Lionel Truss doesn’t show up unannounced for small talk.
As we walk the corridor toward my office, Cormac’s got that unreadable smirk on his face while Lionel fills the air with stories about Scottish golf courses and how his youngest wants to study architecture now. None of it lands. My gut’s already tightening. The last time I saw both these men in the same room was the week they axed two senior directors in the Manhattan division.
When we step into my office, they take their seats across from me like they own the place. Which, technically, they do.
Lionel leans forward, his hands clasped, expression turning serious in the blink of an eye. “Declan, you’ve done more for Halberd’s UK expansion than any of us expected. The board is thrilled. Profits are up, operations are clean, morale’s stable.”
I nod, cautiously. “Appreciate that.”
“We’re not just focusing on England anymore,” he says. “We’ve already greenlit an exploratory team for Scotland. Glasgow’s on the docket.”
Cormac picks it up from there. “And we’ve been talking, Lionel and me—and a few of the other lads—and we reckon you’re the best bloke to lead the Glasgow visit. Boots on the ground, so to speak.”
The words hang in the air.
I blink once. Then twice. “Wait, you want me to… move to Glasgow?”
Lionel chuckles. “Not move. Not yet, anyway. Just an inquiry trip. Talk to local partners. Vet the talent. Walk the floor. We need someone polished. Charming. Smart. Speaks well. You.”
I exhale, not quite sure if that’s relief or something else clawing up my ribs. “And how long would this inquiry trip be?”
“Three weeks,” Cormac answers.
Three weeks.
Away from Amerie. Away from the kids. After everything that’s been happening lately.
I try not to let it show on my face. “That’s… a long stretch.”
Lionel waves a hand. “Come on, I’d give anything for three weeks away from my family. You’ll be begging us to extend it.”
I manage the ghost of a smile, but on the inside, my stomach twists. It’s not funny. Not to me. Not after all the late nights I’ve pulled. Not after how distant Amerie and I have been the past couple months. She’s just started coming around again. We’ve only just caught our footing.
I don’t want to lose that.
But I also know how this game works. You don’t climb the ladder at Halberd by staying home and tucking your daughter into bed. You get ahead by saying yes when the men in suits come knocking. You get ahead by being the one who makes sacrifices.
Even if it costs you something you can't put on a balance sheet.
I give a stiff nod. “Alright. Let me talk to my wife. But… yes. I’ll think about it.”
“We’ll need an answer by tomorrow,” Lionel says, already rising to his feet. “No pressure, eh?”
