“When was the last time you let yourself feel anything?” I suspect the question lands like a stone in still water because Ruby stares back at me while her fingers tighten around her glass until her knuckles turn white.
I down my whiskey and rise to my feet. “I’ll see you around, neighbor.”
“Wait,” she calls as I reach the door, her voice carrying a note of uncertainty. “Your wine, your whiskey…” She gestures at the bottles, like she needs something tangible to focus on.
“Keep them.” I turn in the doorway, offering her a smile that I know will haunt her thoughts. “I have plenty. Think of them as a standing invitation.” I pause, letting my hand rest on the doorframe. “For whenever you’re ready to stop watching and start living.”
NINE
RUBY
The conference room on the fortieth floor feels like a pressure cooker. Eight lawyers, three CEOs, and enough coffee cups to build a fortress. Miranda, my lead paralegal, sits to my left while Tom Chen from our corporate team is on my right. The downtown lights glitter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but none of us have looked outside in hours.
“The payment terms aren’t clear enough,” David Morton, opposing counsel, says for the third time. He’s been nitpicking all afternoon, his tie askew, a coffee stain on his sleeve. Amateur hour. “My client needs?—”
“Your client needs to stop wasting everyone’s time,” I cut in. “The terms are crystal clear. Full payment upon closing, with forty million held in reserve for three years. That’s more than generous.” I slide a document across the table. “Here’s the breakdown in simple English, since the legal version seems to be giving you trouble.”
Mark Reynolds, the selling CEO, stops drumming his fingers. He’s been here since nine a.m., watching his one-hundred-eighty-million-dollar deal comedown to these final hours. We all know his tech is worth almost twice that—it’s why my client, James Wilson, wants this deal so badly.
“Ruby,” Morton starts, using my first name like we’re buddies. “If we could just?—”
“We’re done negotiating.” I lean forward, palms flat on the table. “Your client wants to sell. My client wants to buy. The terms are fair, the protections are solid, and you’ve run out of reasons to stall. So either we sign now, or we walk.” I hold Reynolds’s gaze. “And we both know you don’t want us to walk.”
Miranda slides the signature pages across without being asked. We’re a well-oiled machine, and she knows my moves before I make them.
The room goes quiet. Morton whispers to his client, who nods. I’ve won. Wilson has won.
The next hour dissolves into signatures and handshakes. I watch Reynolds sign away his company, and when the last page is initialed, champagne is brought in.
I should feel something. Smug satisfaction at least. Seven months of work, the kind of deal that makes careers. Any other lawyer would be preening right now, mentally composing their LinkedIn post. But I feel nothing. Just flat. Always flat.
“Congratulations, everyone,” I say, standing. It’s only seven p.m.—early for me. The clients are planning their celebration at the Olympus as I start gathering my files, thinking about the Morrison deal waiting on my desk.
Miranda touches my arm. “Don’t even think about going back to your office,” she says. “You’ve been running on empty for months. Go home.”
“I can’t. I just need to review?—”
“The Morrison deal can wait.” She starts packing my briefcase herself. “Everything’s filed, the press release isready, and you have seven days of mandatory vacation starting now.”
I want to argue, but exhaustion hits me like a truck. When did I last sleep more than four hours? Going home is the last thing I want, but Miranda’s right. I’m no good to anyone if I crash.
“Fine,” I concede, letting her hand me my coat. “But I’m taking the Morrison files?—”
“No, you’re not.” She physically blocks my path to my office. “Seven days, Ruby. Doctor’s orders.” She means her own orders. “The firm won’t collapse without you for a week.”
The elevator ride down feels surreal, as it’s still light outside. Seven days stretch ahead. No meetings, no deadlines, no distractions. Just me and my thoughts in that too-big house. I haven’t taken time off since right after I lost Claire. Her post still sits unopened in the kitchen. Her gardening magazines still arrive every month. I should cancel the subscriptions.
There are a million things I need to do. Her clothes still hang in the closet, gathering dust. Her jewelry box sits untouched on the dresser, including the sapphire ring from her grandmother that she wanted her niece to have. I never called her niece about that. Her phone line is still active—I keep paying the bill in case I ever want to listen to her voicemail, yet I never do because it’s too painful.
The life insurance payout sits in a separate account I haven’t looked at. The thank-you cards for the funeral flowers were never sent. Her BMW is in the garage, registration renewal notices piling up. Her laptop holds thousands of photos I haven’t backed up, emails I haven’t archived.
The meditation app she used still charges my creditcard monthly and her standing hair appointment shows up on my calendar every six weeks like a ghost.
Maybe I should hire someone to handle it all—a personal assistant who can cancel subscriptions, make calls, pack up clothes for donation. Someone who can touch her things without feeling like they’re dismantling a life. Someone who won’t break down at the sight of her handwriting on Post-it notes, who won’t recognize her scent still clinging to clothes, who won’t remember the stories behind every piece of jewelry and book and photograph.
“Ruby?” Wilson’s voice breaks through my spiral. We’re in the lobby now, the security guard—whatever his name is—nodding goodnight. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us at the Olympus?”
I should say no. I never socialize with clients. It’s always been one of my rules, even before I became a recluse—keep business and pleasure separate. But the thought of going home to those tasks…
