CHAPTER 11: THE PATIENT GAME
Week four.
Gerri chose the restaurant—small Italian place in the West Village, the kind with red-checked tablecloths and waiters who'd worked there for thirty years. Not the place you'd expect to find Waystar executives.
Which was exactly the point.
"No one we know comes here," she said as I sat down. "The food's too authentic, the prices too reasonable."
"Slumming it with the common folk?"
"Learning what good pasta actually tastes like." She pushed a menu toward me. "You've been eating overpriced garbage your whole life. Time to broaden your horizons."
I scanned the menu. No fancy descriptions, no molecular gastronomy nonsense. Just: Spaghetti Carbonara, Rigatoni Amatriciana, Penne Arrabbiata.
"What's good?"
"Everything. That's the problem." She flagged down the waiter, ordered in what sounded like decent Italian. The waiter beamed at her.
"You speak Italian," I said when he'd left.
"My husband was Italian-American. His grandmother taught me." She said it matter-of-factly, but something in her voice made me pay attention.
Husband. Past tense. The character bible had mentioned it briefly—Gerri was a widow, had been for years. But she never talked about it.
"How long were you married?" I asked.
She looked at me. Surprised, maybe, that I'd asked. "Twelve years. He died fifteen years ago. Heart attack. He was forty-eight."
"I'm sorry."
"Thank you." She took a sip of wine. "It was... he was a good man. Kind. Smart. Nothing like anyone in your family's orbit."
"How'd you end up at Waystar?"
"Needed a job that paid well enough to bury the medical debt and still eat. Waystar was hiring corporate attorneys. I was good at what I did." She set the glass down. "I told myself it would be temporary. Just until I got back on my feet."
"Fifteen years temporary."
"Funny how that works." She smiled slightly. "You get good at something, people need you, and suddenly temporary becomes your life."
The food arrived. She'd been right—it was extraordinary. Simple, perfectly executed, the kind of meal that made you remember why you loved eating.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Comfortable silence, the kind you only get with people who don't need constant conversation.
"You're different lately," Gerri said eventually. "More... present."
"Present?"
"Here. Engaged. Before, you were always performing. The jokes, the crude comments. Always playing Roman Roy." She met my eyes. "Lately you're actually being him."
Dangerous territory. I focused on twirling pasta. "Maybe the stroke scared some sense into me."
"Maybe." She didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe you decided to stop hiding."
I looked up. She was watching me with that attorney focus, the kind that missed nothing.
"What do you think I was hiding from?" I asked carefully.
"Whatever all of you are hiding from. Your father. Yourselves. The fact that this company is built on exploitation and you all know it but pretend you don't." She paused. "The fact that you're playing a game that has no winners, only degrees of losing."
"Cheerful."
"Realistic." She reached for her wine again. "But you. Lately you seem like you're trying to play differently. I'm just not sure why."
Because I knew how the original game ended. Because I'd seen four seasons of everyone losing in different ways. Because I had the chance to write a different ending.
But I couldn't say any of that.
"Maybe I'm just tired of losing," I said finally.
"Good." She raised her glass. "Because if you're actually serious about this—about being more than the crude joke—I might be willing to help."
I raised my own glass. "Might be?"
"Still deciding if you're worth the risk."
We clinked glasses.
The rest of the dinner passed in easy conversation. Work talk, some. But also books she'd been reading, places she wanted to travel but never had time for, the small details of a life lived between corporate crises.
I filed it all away. Not for strategy. Just because I wanted to remember.
The company event was typical Waystar—too much money spent on too much alcohol while executives pretended to enjoy each other's company. Some investor relations thing, I wasn't entirely sure. I'd shown up because absence would be noticed.
I stood near the bar, nursing a scotch, watching.
Tom Wambsgans worked the room like his life depended on it. Which, in a sense, it did. I'd seen him earlier, laughing too hard at someone's joke, agreeing too enthusiastically with Karl's boring story about quarterly projections.
Desperate. That was the word for Tom. Desperately trying to belong in a world that would never quite accept him.
I let the Empathy Engine extend. Gentle. Controlled. Just enough to catch the surface noise.
From Tom's direction, as he shook hands with some board member: Smile. Agree. Laugh. Don't say anything stupid. They're judging you. They're always judging. You don't belong here. Yes you do. You married a Roy. That means something. Right?
The internal monologue of a man terrified of being exposed as a fraud. Even though he wasn't a fraud—he was competent, hardworking, better than half the executives in this room. But he'd never believe it.
Useful data. Tom's insecurity made him controllable. But it also made him dangerous—desperate people did unpredictable things.
I filed it away under "complicated assets."
"Roman Roy. Didn't expect to see you here."
I turned. Greg Hirsch stood behind me, holding a beer awkwardly, too-long limbs making him look like he'd been assembled from mismatched parts.
"Greg." I nodded. "How's it going?"
"Oh, you know. Good. Great. Just... networking." He gestured vaguely at the room. "Meeting people. Being... present."
I almost smiled. Greg's awkwardness was so genuine it was almost charming.
"How's the job treating you?" I asked.
His face lit up. "Really good, actually. I'm in Parks, which I know isn't, like, the most exciting division, but Tom's been really helpful, and I'm learning a lot, and—" He stopped. "Sorry. I'm rambling."
"It's fine. Parks is solid. Steady revenue, low drama."
"Yeah?" He looked at me with something like hope. "That's good to hear. I wasn't sure if I was, you know, doing okay or if everyone was just being polite."
"You're doing fine," I said. And then, because I saw an opening: "You need anything? Help navigating the company, introductions, whatever?"
Greg blinked. "Really?"
"Why not? You're family. Sort of."
"I'm... yeah. Technically." He shifted his beer from one hand to the other. "That would be great, actually. I don't really know anyone except Tom and he's always so busy and—" He stopped again. "Sorry. Rambling again."
I pulled out my phone. "Give me your number. I'll text you sometime. We can grab lunch, I'll fill you in on who's who."
He gave me his number, fingers fumbling slightly on his own phone to confirm the text I sent.
"Thanks, man. This is... thanks."
"No problem."
He wandered off, slightly less awkward than before. I watched him go.
Greg Hirsch. The chaos agent. The one who would somehow stumble his way through every crisis and come out ahead. The one with the cruise documents that would eventually matter.
Getting him on my side early cost nothing and could pay off enormously.
I finished my scotch. Made a few more obligatory rounds. Left early enough to not be rude but not so early as to seem antisocial.
Outside, the November air was sharp and clear. I walked instead of calling a car. Central Park was four blocks away.
The park at dusk. Joggers finishing their routes, dog walkers, a dad playing catch with his kid near the walking path. Normal people living normal lives, unaware of the corporate wars happening in the towers above them.
I watched the dad and kid. The easy laughter, the casual affection. The kid missed the ball, laughed, ran to get it. The dad said something that made the kid laugh harder.
Roman's body didn't recognize that feeling. Didn't have muscle memory of that kind of easy parental affection. But I did. From before. From my original life.
The longing hit unexpectedly. Sharp and sudden.
I kept walking.
My phone buzzed. Kendall.
Dad's coming back next week. Full capacity. Meeting scheduled.
I stared at the message.
Logan's return. The real power dynamics resuming. The games getting serious again.
I texted back: Noted.
The wait was almost over. Soon I'd know if my Vaulter gamble paid off. Soon Logan would be back in full control. Soon everything would shift again.
I walked home through the darkening park, hands in my pockets, thinking about fathers and sons and games that no one really won.
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