Page 50 of Designing Love
“Touché.” I disappear long enough to microwave popcorn, then return with the bowl. She snatches it like a dragon claiming treasure, but I scoop a handful first and hit PLAY.
22
RISK & REWARD
Sophia
The hostess at Arcobaleno ushers me past shelves of Chianti bottles and into a cozy corner booth where Sam Green is already demolishing a basket of focaccia. He looks up, flour-dusted grin in place, and waves a chunk of bread like a tiny white flag.
“Two days of trench warfare calls for carbs,” he declares. “Sit — before I eat your half.”
I slide into the booth and shrug off my coat. “If you finish the bread, I’m ordering double tiramisu.”
“Fair.” Sam pushes the basket to the middle.
I pour myself water. “Daniel always was a shark negotiator. I wouldn’t have wanted to be against him in court.”
Sam’s relaxed smile slips into his courtroom face — sharp, focused. “But he did blink on the non-compete language. Small win.”
“Tiny. He still wants my client list and half the firm’s IP. I’m not giving him the color palettes I designed when he was busy booking tee times.”
Sam chuckles. “Speaking of ammo — Sage finally sent me the inheritance docs.”
My heart thumps. “And?”
“You’re sitting on enough capital to buy out Daniel twice and still have cushion.” He slides an envelope across the table. Inside, tidy statements list numbers large enough to make me swallow hard.
“I figured it was just —” I search for the right word. “Comfortable.”
“It’s beyond comfortable. Your parents’ insurance paid out, and Sage invested well. They kept it quiet so Daniel couldn’t ‘redirect’ it.”
I run a finger over the embossed letterhead, emotions tangling — gratitude, guilt, anger at not knowing sooner. Mostly relief. “So, I can increase our offer.”
Sam nods. “Tomorrow, we open with the same structure — full dissolution, no strings—but bump the offer by twenty percent. We make it clear that’s the ceiling.”
“Bump up by ten percent, let him ask for the other ten percent to feel in control.” I scoff.
“Good play.”
“And if he asks where the sudden money comes from?”
“Tell him a unicorn venture fund,” Sam deadpans. “Or just say you leveraged your house. He won’t check.”
I laugh despite myself. “He checks everything.”
“Then tell him Sage sold a Banksy.” Sam waves a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is ending this on your terms.”
I tuck the envelope into my purse and let out the breath I’ve been holding for two days. “Thank you. For fighting with me.”
“Always.” Sam leans back as the waiter appears. We order pasta —cacio e pepefor me, squid ink linguine for him — and split a bottle of Montepulciano that loosens the knots in my shoulders.
Between bites, we strategize: what tone I’ll take (“calm, vaguely pitying”), who speaks first (“me, before Daniel launches into theatrics”), and what to do if he walks out (“let him; the clock hurts him more than us”). By the time plates are scraped clean, my nerves have settled into something that feels a lot like confidence.
Sam signals for espresso and folds his hands. “One more thing. After this is done, don’t second guess the peace. Use it.”
“I plan to.” An image flickers — lake water, sun-bleached porch boards, Ethan’s lopsided grin. My chest tightens in a good way. “There’s… someone worth returning to.”
Sam gives me a knowing smile. “Ah yes. The fixer-upper tech guy.”
