Page 19 of Top Shelf

I blink. “Okay.”

“The need is real, and the adjacency to the clinic makes sense.”

“Okay.”

His eyebrow lifts. “You’re allowed to use other words, Dr. Grant.”

“Oka—uhh. Thank you.”

He leans back. “I like the model and the continuum. I like that you’ve considered scope and liability instead of assuming good intentions are a business plan.”

My stomach tightens with hope. This is the part of the morning no one can take from me. Not Kevin or Randy or Sunglasses McStop-Sign. Not even Viktor Karlsson’s gentle hands and stupidly calm voice.

“But I’m not going to bankroll it.”

The words should surprise me less than they do, because I knew this was possible. Moreno is generous in strategic ways, but he isn’t impulsive, and he doesn’t solve problems for people just because he can. That is one of the reasons I respect him.

It’s also, currently, the reason I would like to crawl beneath the conference table and live there among the chair legs. Carina’s knee presses gently against mine.

“Okay,” I say again.

Moreno’s expression doesn’t soften, but his voice does a little. “I will support it with referrals and a formal letter of support for financing. Advisory involvement where appropriate and landlord reassurance that Moreno Clinic views the studio as complementary rather than competitive.”

That isn’t nothing—it’s far from nothing—but I still hear the gap of what is missing before he says it.

“But I will not bankroll it,” Moreno repeats.

I sit back slowly, and the chair presses into my spine. I can feel my body wanting to fold around the disappointment, but I keep my shoulders level. “Why?”

“Because this is your brilliance, Dr. Grant,” he says. “Legal separation matters and ownership matters. If this goes ahead, it needs to stand as its own business and not as an extension the Moreno Clinic happens to control.”

The intention in his voice makes my eyes sting, which is both rude and unnecessary. If he notices, he’s gracious enough to pretend he doesn’t by instead reaching for another document on the table.

“The landlord contacted me yesterday,” he says, sliding it toward me.

My attention snaps to the page. “Oh?”

“Another prospective tenant is interested in the suite. The space next door isn’t going to sit empty indefinitely.”

The seatbelt bruise pulses sharply. “What kind of prospective tenant?”

“Medical Aesthetics.”

I stare at him, and Carina makes a small sound beside me, then swallows it.

“Medical Aesthetics,” I repeat.

“Yes.”

“For the space next to a sports orthopedic clinic.”

“Similar industry.”

“That feels like a generous interpretation.”

“Well… their patients also have musculoskeletal systems.”

“Do they use them to receive their Botox?”