Sterling Enterprises' CFO was a methodical man named Daniel Park who had been with the company for twelve years and who had a very specific expression for when he was processing information that did not fit his current model.

He was making that expression now.

I had requested the meeting through Voss Group's legal team, which he'd accepted because Voss Group had been the subject of acquisition interest from three major players in the last eighteen months and anyone at Sterling Enterprises needed to know what they were saying.

He had not known, when he arrived, who was chairing the meeting.

"Ms. Voss," he said, when I walked into the conference room.

"Mr. Park," I said. "Thank you for coming."

He sat across from me and opened his briefcase in the neat precise manner of someone stalling for time while recalibrating.

"The Voss Group," he said. "We've been monitoring the recent activity in the sector."

"I know," I said. "Your Q3 analysis referenced our logistics division twice." I slid the document across the table. "This is a preliminary term sheet for a merger proposal. Our logistics division and your distribution infrastructure. The synergies are significant — I expect you've already run similar numbers internally."

He looked at the term sheet.

His expression did the thing again.

"This is—" He stopped. "The terms are favorable."

"They're accurate," I said. "We're not offering a premium because we don't need to. The business case is sufficient."

He looked up from the term sheet.

"Ms. Voss," he said. "I need to ask you — the Voss family, the Voss Group, there's been very little public information about the current leadership transition. George Voss has been—"

"My grandfather," I said.

Park's expression settled into something that was no longer processing and was now simply absorbing.

"George Voss is your grandfather," he said.

"Yes."

"And you are—"

"The heir," I said. "Formally announced next week. Informally, as of this conversation."

He looked at the term sheet. At me. At the term sheet again.

"Ms. Voss," he said. "I need to disclose something."

"I know what you're going to say," I said.

He stopped.

"Roman Hale is your CEO," I said. "And Roman Hale was my husband until three days ago." I held his eyes. "I am aware of the relationship and the potential conflict. I want to be clear that this meeting is a business meeting and the proposal stands entirely on its business merits." I paused. "I also want to be clear that if Sterling Enterprises chooses to engage, the terms do not change based on personal history. Voss Group is not interested in anything other than the commercial outcome."

Park looked at me for a long time.

"Does Roman know?" he said.

"Not yet," I said.

He looked at the term sheet.

He was a methodical man. He ran numbers in his head when other people ran feelings.

"I need to bring this to the board," he said.

"Of course," I said. "The preliminary window is two weeks. After that the terms go to open market consideration."

He looked up.

"You're giving us first right of refusal," he said. Slowly. Understanding moving across his face. "Why."

I looked at him.

"Because it's the right transaction for both companies," I said. "Whatever else is true, the business case is real."

He nodded once. The specific nod of a man who understood that he was in a room with someone who had already thought further than he had.

He left with the term sheet.

I sat at the conference table in the Voss Group building and looked at the city.

Park would call Roman within the hour.

Roman would call me.

I would not answer.

Some things were better understood through documentation.

After Park left, my grandfather appeared in the conference room doorway.

He had been listening from his adjacent office, which he always did when significant meetings ran in the building. Not because he distrusted my judgment — because he liked to know.

"His face," my grandfather said.

"Yes," I said.

"The good kind of processing," he said. "The kind that means he understood the business case independently of everything else."

"He's a good CFO," I said. "He's been protecting Sterling Enterprises' position for twelve years. He knows a good transaction when he sees one."

"He'll bring it to Roman today," my grandfather said.

"Yes. And Roman will call me." I looked at the city. "Probably not today. Tomorrow, maybe. After he's had time with it."

"And what will you tell Roman?" my grandfather said.

"That the meeting is Wednesday at two," I said. "Through Priya."

My grandfather sat down.

"You're being careful," he said.

"I'm being accurate," I said. "The merger is a business matter and Roman is going to have to engage with it as a business matter before anything else can happen. If he comes to me personally before the business is settled, everything gets muddled." I looked at him. "I don't want it muddled."

"No," he agreed.

"I want it clean," I said. "The business case stands on its own. The personal case stands on its own. They're related but not identical, and they need to be addressed separately."

My grandfather looked at me with the expression he had when he recognized something he'd taught me being used correctly.

"Your grandmother would have done it exactly the same way," he said.

I looked at the desk.

"Good," I said.

He went back to his office.

I pulled up the merger documentation and went back to work.

Park would call Roman within the hour.

Roman would need twenty-four hours with the information.

Wednesday at two.

I would be ready.

I was always ready when I knew the meeting was coming.

That was the one consistent advantage of being Delia Voss — she had been ready for this for three years.

Ready was the easiest part.

Park texted at four-thirty.

Brought to Roman. He's reading it now. He's not reacting — he's reading.

I wrote back: Good.

He's going to call you, Park wrote.

He'll reach Priya, I wrote.

Right, Park wrote. Then: Ms. Voss. For what it's worth — I always thought the Delia Hale situation was more complicated than it looked. I just didn't know how to say that without it being improper.

I looked at the message.

Daniel Park had thought the situation was complicated. For three years he'd sat across tables from me at Sterling family events and thought this is more complicated than it looks, and had said nothing because saying it would have been improper.

I wrote: Thank you, Daniel. That means something.

Wednesday at two, he wrote. I briefed him on the full terms. He'll be ready.

I put the phone down.

I thought about the dinner. About Roman's profile as he said she's not wrong about the documentation.

He was going to have questions.

I had answers.

I was ready.

I was always ready when I knew the meeting was coming.

That was the one consistent advantage of three years of preparation.

Ready was the easiest part.