Chapter 6: THE COUNSEL
Three days after Logan's stroke, I called Gerri's number.
She answered on the second ring. "Roman."
"You said to call when I was ready for that conversation."
"I did."
"I'm ready."
"My office. Seven PM. Don't be late."
Click.
I spent the rest of the day at the apartment. Trying to understand the powers that came with this body. The Empathy Engine was getting stronger—or I was getting better at controlling it. Hard to tell the difference.
I'd tested it throughout the morning. Small experiments. The doorman's thoughts when I greeted him. The barista's reaction when I tipped well. The delivery guy's surprise when I actually thanked him.
Each touch brought clearer impressions. Not complete thoughts. More like emotional headlines with contextual hints. Surprised. Grateful. Suspicious of my angle.
But the headaches were worse. Using the power burned something. Energy. Mental stamina. Whatever kept consciousness functional.
I needed to learn the limits. Fast.
Seven PM. I arrived at Waystar. The building was nearly empty. Night shift staff and executives who lived at their desks. The kind of people who built empires or destroyed themselves trying.
Gerri's office light was on. I knocked.
"Come in."
She'd changed from her day suit into something more casual. Still professional. But the armor was looser. She was drinking scotch from a crystal glass that probably cost more than my old rent.
"Sit." She gestured at the chair. Poured a second glass. Handed it to me.
I took it. The scotch was excellent. Smooth. Expensive. The kind of thing people drank when they were closing deals or starting wars.
"So," Gerri said. "Let's have that conversation."
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything." She sat across from me. Direct eye contact. "What you want. What you're planning. Why you're suddenly acting like a functional human being instead of the chaos agent I've watched for years."
"That's a lot of questions."
"Answer them."
I took a drink. Bought time to think. How much truth to give her. How much to hide.
"I want to survive," I said. "I want the company to survive. I want my family to not implode. In that order."
"Why?"
"Because Logan's stroke showed me how fragile this all is. How fast it can fall apart. How close we are to losing everything."
"You've never cared about that before."
"I've never had reason to. Logan was invincible. The company was invincible. We could fuck around because there were no real consequences."
"And now?"
"Now there are consequences. Now I'm paying attention."
Gerri sipped her scotch. Studied me over the rim of the glass.
"You're lying," she said. Flat. Certain.
My pulse spiked. "Excuse me?"
"Not about wanting to survive. That's genuine. But there's something else. Something you're not saying."
"Everyone has secrets."
"True. But most people don't change their entire personality overnight. Most people don't go from incompetent joke to competent crisis responder in the span of an afternoon."
She set her glass down. Leaned forward.
"So I'll ask again. What changed?"
Decision point. How much to reveal.
"Logan's stroke scared me," I said. Honest. True. Just not the whole truth. "Not because he might die. Because it made me realize I might actually have to step up. Actually be someone other than the fuckup youngest son. And I looked at my life—at what I've done, at who I've been—and I hated it."
"So you decided to change."
"So I decided to try."
"Just like that."
"Just like that."
Gerri picked up her glass. Swirled the scotch. Watched it catch the light.
"I don't believe you," she said. "But I don't need to believe you. I just need to know if you're useful."
"Am I?"
"Potentially. You have access to the family in ways I don't. You can observe things I can't see. You can influence dynamics I can't touch."
"And in exchange?"
"I teach you how this company actually works. I give you context for the decisions you'll need to make. I protect you from the board members who'd eat you alive if they thought you were vulnerable."
"That's generous."
"That's practical. If you're genuinely trying to be competent, I can work with that. If you're lying and you're still the chaos agent, I'll know soon enough."
I finished my scotch. Set the glass down.
"I have a question," I said.
"Go ahead."
"The board. Sandy and Stewy. You mentioned they're positioning against us. How serious is that threat?"
Gerri's eyebrows rose. Fractionally. Impressed.
"Serious. They own ten percent of the company through their private equity fund. They've been circling for years, waiting for an opportunity. Logan's stroke is that opportunity."
"What's their play?"
"They'll try to force a sale. Or a merger. Or board seats. Anything that gives them more control or reduces Logan's influence."
"Can they succeed?"
"Depends on how the other shareholders react. If they smell weakness, if they think Logan's actually diminished... yes. They could succeed."
I processed that. The information matched what I remembered from the show. But having Gerri explain it, having the context from someone who actually lived this world, made it more real.
"So we need to project strength," I said. "Make sure everyone thinks Logan's recovery is inevitable and complete. Make sure Kendall looks competent as interim CEO. Make sure the family is united and functional."
"Exactly."
"That's a tall order. We're Roys. United and functional isn't really our thing."
"Then learn to fake it."
She stood. Walked to her desk. Pulled out a folder. Handed it to me.
"Board composition. Shareholder breakdown. Key executives and their loyalties. Read it. Memorize it. Know who matters and why."
I opened the folder. Pages of information. Names and percentages and relationships mapped like a military operation.
"This is..."
"Your homework. If you're serious about being useful, you need to understand the battlefield."
I looked at her. Really looked at her. Late fifties. Silver hair. Sharp eyes. Decades of surviving the Roy family's dysfunction. She'd made it this far by being smarter than everyone else and never trusting anyone completely.
"Why are you helping me?" I asked. "Really. What's your angle?"
"You asked intelligent questions. You didn't make crude jokes. You showed up when you said you would. That's three more points than any other Roy has ever earned."
"That's it? I'm slightly less terrible than my family?"
"That's enough to start with."
I closed the folder. Stood.
"I'll read this. I'll learn it. And I'll call you when I have questions."
"I expect you will."
I walked to the door. Paused with my hand on the handle.
"Gerri?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For taking me seriously. For giving me a chance to not be useless."
Something shifted in her expression. Not quite a smile. But softer than her usual controlled neutrality.
"Don't make me regret it."
"I'll try not to."
I left her office. Walked through the empty building toward the elevator. The folder felt heavy in my hand. Not from physical weight. From what it represented.
Information. Access. A genuine ally in Gerri Kellman.
The elevator descended. I looked at my reflection in the polished doors. Roman's face. My mind. Powers I barely understood. A future I was trying to rewrite.
For the first time since waking up in this body, I felt something other than fear or confusion or desperate improvisation.
I felt hope.
One ally. One folder of corporate intelligence. One changed vote that had shifted the dynamics between me and Kendall.
It wasn't much.
But it was more than canon Roman ever had.
The elevator reached the ground floor. The doors opened. I stepped out into the lobby.
My phone buzzed. Text from Kendall.
Dinner tomorrow? Just us. Want to talk about some things.
I stared at the text. Kendall reaching out. Building the bridge I'd started with my vote.
Another butterfly effect. Another change.
I typed a response: Yeah. Works for me.
Sent it.
The night air hit me when I walked outside. Manhattan at night. All lights and energy and eight million stories I'd never hear.
But I was living mine. However strange it was. However impossible it should have been.
I was here. I was alive. I had powers and knowledge and one genuine ally.
The game continued.
And for the first time, I thought I might actually survive it.
I walked toward the street. Hailed a cab. Gave the driver my address.
Settled into the seat. Opened Gerri's folder. Started reading by the passing streetlights.
Board composition. Shareholder breakdown. Key executives and their loyalties.
The homework she'd given me.
The tools I'd need to navigate what came next.
I read until the cab reached my building. Tipped the driver well. Took the elevator up.
The apartment was dark. Empty. The luxury that came with being Roman Roy but none of the warmth that made a space feel like home.
I turned on lights. Made coffee. Sat at the kitchen counter with Gerri's folder.
And I studied.
Because this was my life now. This was my world. These were the games I'd play.
And if I was going to survive—if I was going to change anything—I needed to understand every piece on the board.
I read until midnight. Then one AM. Then two.
Memorized names and percentages and relationships. Built the map in my head of who mattered and why and how they connected.
When I finally went to bed, my head was full of information instead of fear.
Progress.
Small. But real.
The game continued.
And I was learning how to play.
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