would likely protect the company more effectively than an endless public dispute. Once Westbridge was told that no sale had been authorized, its representatives paused discussions and later withdrew the proposed terms. Their willingness to pay Ryan a special consulting fee had depended on a transaction that was no longer moving forward.
Ryan asked for a meeting with me and Mason. I refused at first. Then I agreed, not because I wanted to hear another apology, but because the company needed a resolution. We met in a conference room at Mason's office on a gray morning in November. Ryan arrived with his own attorney. He looked older than he had in September, though I knew some of that was my changed perception. His clothes were neat, his manner restrained, and he avoided looking directly at me until both lawyers had finished their introductions.
“Dan,” he said quietly. “Before we start, I want to tell you I'm sorry.”
I nodded once. “We can discuss the business.”
“I know you don't believe me.”
“What I believe isn't the issue on this agenda.”
He exhaled and stared down at the documents. We spent hours discussing the disputed expenses, company valuation, his membership interest, and what it would take for us to part ways. Ryan agreed to reimburse the personal charges identified by the review. The lawyers discussed a buyout based on an independent valuation, with payments structured over time so that the company could keep operating. Nothing was finalized that day, but for the first time there was a practical route toward ending our business partnership.
During a break, Ryan approached me beside the coffee machine. The attorneys were still inside. I considered walking away, but curiosity held me still. I wanted to know whether the man I'd known for two decades could say anything that didn't sound like self-protection.
“I didn't go after Natalie to hurt you,” he said.
“You knew she was my wife.”
“I know.”
“And you knew I trusted you.”
“I know that, too.”
“Then whatever else you tell yourself about what you intended, you knew enough to stop.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Caroline used to say I couldn't stand feeling second to anyone.”
Caroline was his former wife. I'd heard Ryan talk about their divorce as though it had happened to him without his participation. The admission startled me because he almost never quoted her except to dismiss her complaints. I waited.
“I think I liked that Natalie came to me about problems with you,” he said. “It made me feel like I knew something you didn't. Then it became more than that.”
I studied his face. There was no triumphant villain standing in front of me, just a man whose insecurity had cost other people dearly. That made what he did seem more ordinary and, in some ways, more disturbing. A person didn't need to hate you to betray you. Sometimes it was enough that he wanted what you had, or wanted to feel bigger while you weren't looking.
“Did you think I'd sign Westbridge because I'd be desperate to keep Natalie?” I asked.