I sat with the phone in my hand after the message ended. During Celia's breast cancer treatment years earlier, Natalie and I had divided the trips to appointments and learned the names of every nurse on her floor. I'd taken days off work to sit beside her when Ben couldn't get away from school. My relationship with Celia didn't disappear because my marriage was ending. But I also knew the coming months would rearrange every family gathering, every holiday tradition, every unspoken assumption about who belonged at what table.
I called her back. She answered on the first ring and began crying when she heard my voice. We spoke for fifteen minutes about her garden, the upcoming cold weather, and the fact that her new medication was working. Before hanging up, she said, “I wish my daughter had known how to ask for help before she made everything worse.”
“Me too,” I said.
The next morning, the independent accountant Mason recommended began reviewing Oak & Stone's discretionary expenses. Nothing about the process was dramatic. There were spreadsheets, invoices, expense categories, and people asking for documents that had existed for months. Priya was relieved to have someone else looking at the numbers. I was relieved because each verified fact made the situation less dependent on what Ryan might decide to admit.
The review eventually identified hotel and restaurant charges during Natalie's trip that had no supported business purpose, plus several earlier expenses that appeared personal. The total was smaller than my anger had imagined but large enough to matter. Ryan had also used company-paid travel on two weekends earlier in the year when he told me he was meeting prospective clients. The dates overlapped with weekends Natalie had described as professional conferences. I wanted to call him immediately and demand a confession. Mason advised me to let the inquiry run its course.
In the middle of all this, I still had to make payroll, approve cabinets for Mrs. Price, and explain to a young customer why their kitchen floor couldn't be repaired without opening a section of the subfloor. Ordinary responsibilities didn't pause because my life had split apart. Some days that felt unfair. Other days it saved me. When Tessa brought a set of revised drawings into my office and asked whether I'd check them, I discovered I could still care about something that had nothing to do with Ryan or Natalie. We spent forty minutes working out a measurement problem, and for those forty minutes I remembered who I had been before the crisis.
On Friday, Ryan sent a long email. He admitted that his relationship with Natalie had crossed a line, apologized for hurting me, and insisted our friendship had always mattered to him. He called the expense charges “poor judgment” and offered to reimburse the company. He also suggested that we should sign the Westbridge deal before our personal conflict weakened the business. It was the last suggestion that clarified everything. Even in an apology, Ryan was still trying to move me toward the decision he'd wanted for months.