Chapter 16 - A KITCHEN TABLE BOARDROOM
Monday mornings used to begin with an ironed tie, a seven-minute espresso, and three attorneys briefing Damian on liabilities before the market bell rang.
Now, Monday began with sticky strawberry jam on his thumb.
Damian sat at the small pine table in Elena’s kitchen, a cup of drip coffee steaming in a ceramic mug that read World’s Okayest Gardener. Across from him, Mia was systematically lining up purple crayon stubs in descending order of size while chewing on the crust of her toast.
"Are you going to fire someone today?" Mia asked without looking up from her wax alignment.
"No," Damian said, setting down his pen. "Today I am giving away fifty thousand dollars."
Mia stopped mid-crayon. Her dark eyes went wide with sheer financial outrage. "That can buy fifty thousand cakes."
"It could," Damian agreed gravely. "Or it could fix the roof on the community daycare center down on Fourth Street so sixty kids don't have to eat lunch under plastic tarps when it rains."
Mia tilted her head, weighing the relative value of sixty rain-free lunches against a mountain of frosted sponge. "Daycare is better," she concluded after three seconds. "Cakes give you tummy aches if you eat two."
Elena walked into the kitchen carrying a wicker laundry basket, wearing an oversized flannel shirt and wool socks. She paused behind Damian’s chair, resting her hands naturally on his shoulders as she leaned over to inspect his spreadsheet.
"The board approved the foundation restructuring without a fight?" she asked.
"Not without a fight," Damian murmured, tilting his head back to meet her gaze. "Arthur Sterling spent forty minutes arguing that corporate philanthropy without naming rights diminishes brand equity. I told him our equity was already diminished when we treated people like line items."
Elena smiled—a warm, steady expression that reached her eyes in a way it never had under the cold fluorescent lights of the corporate tower. "And what did Arthur say?"
"He voted yes when I reminded him that his seat on the audit committee is up for renewal in November." Damian smirked faintly. "I haven't forgotten how to negotiate, Elena. I've just changed the currency."
The kitchen buzzer went off, signaling that the washing machine had finished its final cycle.
Mia slid down from her chair, scooped up her backpack, and marched toward the front door. "If we're late, Miss Clara makes us sing the greeting song twice. I don't like the high note."
May you like
Damian closed his laptop, slid his pen into his pocket, and stood up. He reached for his jacket hanging on the wooden peg by the door—a simple brown canvas work coat that replaced the bespoke Italian wool coats he had worn for a decade.
"Let's go," Damian said, holding out a hand for Mia's lunchbox. "We wouldn't want to risk the high note."
