Chapter7 Her?
Casper
Hathaway Capital Building. Conference room. 9 a.m.
I sat at the head of the table. Ten senior executives flanked me on either side. My CFO was presenting quarterly projections, numbers scrolling past on the screens mounted on every wall.
I focused on the data.
Revenue up twelve percent year-over-year. Operating margins holding steady at thirty-two percent. The London merger tracking ahead of schedule.
Everything proceeding exactly as planned, exactly as I'd orchestrated it.
My phone lay face-down on the table in front of me. Silenced.
The divorce was finalized.
Papers signed by both parties. Filed with the court yesterday afternoon. My lawyer had sent the confirmation email this morning at seven AM, probably before he'd even had his first coffee.
"Dissolution of Marriage - Hathaway/Sawyer. Effective immediately. All terms of prenuptial agreement executed as specified. No outstanding claims from either party. Matter closed."
Done. One less thing on my plate.
"Mr. Hathaway?"
I looked up. My PR director, Amelia Chen, was standing at the far end of the table, tablet in hand, her expression apologetic for the interruption.
"Sorry to interrupt the financial review, but we have a time-sensitive matter regarding the Met partnership."
Right. The museum exhibition. European automata.
A corporate sponsorship deal worth twenty million in direct funding, but the real value lay in the connections—old money European families who controlled billions.
The kind of deal that couldn't be measured in quarterly earnings but would pay dividends for decades.
"What about it?"
Amelia tapped her tablet. The screens switched from financial projections to her presentation.
"The centerpiece is an 18th-century French royal automaton clock, gifted by Louis XV to Marie Antoinette. The historical significance is enormous. But—" She paused.
"—it's been severely damaged since World War II. The mechanism is completely seized. If we can't get it working, the exhibition loses its centerpiece and our negotiations with the European families will suffer."
I leaned back in my chair, fingers drumming once against the polished wood. "Find the best restorer in the world. Money isn't an issue."
"We've already consulted the Met's chief conservation advisor," Amelia said. "He gave us three candidates."
The screens changed. Three professional profiles appeared side by side.
"First candidate: Hans Müller. Seventy years old. Former master watchmaker for Patek Philippe. Based in Switzerland."
I nodded once. "Acceptable."
"Second: James Carter. Based in London. He's restored pieces for Buckingham Palace."
"Also acceptable."
"Third—" Amelia's voice shifted, became uncertain.
"—this one is unconventional. Very young. Only twenty-three. But she just completed what multiple experts called an impossible restoration. An 18th-century singing bird music box. She finished it in seventy-two hours."
The third profile loaded on every screen.
Elena Sawyer
Her photo filled the displays. Taken in her workshop. Side profile. Blonde hair catching warm light. Holding micro-tweezers. Eyes clear and focused.
My fingers stilled on the contract in front of me, leaving a faint crease where I'd gripped the edge.
Her name landed like the tip of a thin needle—sharp, unexpected.
The woman I'd just divorced.
I glanced at the image for exactly three seconds, then deliberately looked back down at the merger contracts spread before me, forcing my attention to the numbers that made sense.
Amelia continued. "Ms. Sawyer is young, but her credentials are impressive. She was trained by Michael Sawyer, a legendary restorer. Mr. Thorne from the Met's board personally recommended her. He said, and I quote, 'She's the only person I'd trust with pieces of this caliber.'"
I flipped through the merger contracts, kept my hands occupied, my voice level. "Send me detailed files on all three candidates. I'll review them and make a decision by end of week."
"Of course. I'll have comprehensive portfolios to you by end of day."
"Next item on the agenda."
The meeting moved forward. Numbers. Projections. Strategic initiatives. Standard quarterly review material.
My mind shifted to the London deal—regulatory hurdles still to clear, board votes to secure, negotiating strategies to finalize.
Elena's photo remained on the screens for another thirty seconds before Amelia switched to the next slide.
I didn't look at it again. Didn't need to.
But I'd seen enough.
That expression of complete focus. Those steady hands manipulating tools so delicate they looked like they might shatter under the slightest pressure.
I'd seen her work countless times over the past three years.
She'd spend hours in the study at the TriBeCa penthouse, hunched over her workbench with a magnifying loupe pressed to her eye.
Her desk always scattered with precision tools—micro-tweezers, jeweler's screwdrivers, tiny files I couldn't even name. All her attention focused, unbroken, on whatever damaged antique lay before her.
But I'd never really seen it. Never understood what it actually meant.
To me, it had been her hobby. Her side project. Something to occupy herself between charity galas and business dinners.
I'd paid for her tools without question. Her workspace. Her materials. Written checks without even glancing at the amounts because it was only a few thousand dollars here and there.
Her interests could even be called modest, unassuming. After all, every watch in my personal collection cost no less than fifty thousand.
Now the Met's chief conservation advisor was calling her the best in the field. This took me somewhat by surprise
Over these three years, she'd played her part flawlessly.
She never threw tantrums. Never pestered me for attention or expensive gifts. Never interfered in my business affairs or social obligations.
During the first two years after the helicopter crash, when I was facing the possibility of permanent paralysis, my temper had been vicious. Unpredictable. I'd lash out without warning, without reason.
She'd only ever leave a cup of warm water on my nightstand. Never complained. Never demanded anything in return.
If Chloe hadn't come back, I think I would have simply... carried on. Living with her. The arrangement was functional. Comfortable enough.
But that wasn't the same as choosing her.
The meeting ended just before noon. I returned to my office, sat down at my desk, and pulled up the London merger files.
Tried to focus on the acquisition terms. The regulatory timeline. The board presentation I needed to finalize.
My assistant's voice came through the intercom at six-fifteen.
"Mr. Hathaway, Ms. Vance is here. She says she has a dinner reservation at seven but wanted to stop by early."
I checked my watch. Six-fifteen.
Right. Dinner with Chloe. I'd nearly forgotten.
"Send her in."
