Through my office’s glass walls, I can see Alina sitting at the chair in front of my desk. When I open the door, her scent accosts me like a malevolent spirit. I step in slowly, a thousand strategies popping up in my head and only half of them break a law.
I walk over to my desk, sitting down before looking at her. “You didn’t mention that you were here,” I say.
“Maybe if you’d been more cordial in your texts, I would have told you,” she says. She’s changed her hair color from red to blonde. She’s magazine-level gorgeous—the kind that makes people suspicious because her skin is too smooth, her face is too symmetrical, and her body looks like a replica of a mannequin. But when I look at her, I don’t feel suspicious, aroused, or even love. She might as well be a stranger in a fashion magazine. The only part of her that isn’t picture perfect is her expression, which is bittersweet.
She clicks her nails against the chair’s armrest. “Your last couple of texts sound like San Francisco hasn’t been kind to you.”
“San Francisco is fine,” I say, flipping through some papers, trying to appear busy enough to need solitude. “We’re having a little trouble with our competitors, but we just finished our rebuttal and I’m confident it will solve the issue.”
“Your work ethic has always been admirable,” she says. A sensation of warmth for her twinges in my chest. She and Zandra may be the only two people who could see the effort I put into things. “I just wish you’d be willing to do the same for your relationships.”
“I am willing to work on my relationships if I consider them to be worth the work.”
“And you clearly believe none of them do,” she says. “You told me yourself that our relationship was the longest one you’ve ever had. None of the others lasted past a few months. Dropping everything when things get serious is a symptom of emotional immaturity. Relationships take work. They take effort and—"
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk down to me,” I cut her off, looking at her with enough intensity that she drops her eyes to her hands. “I am willing to dedicate myself to things I see having a future. It’s why I’m here in San Francisco, in my office, working to save my company.”
“We decided on this break because you needed time to figure out what you wanted,” she says slowly. Her fingertips dance at the edge of the armrest. “Settling down isn’t a bad thing, Mark.”
If she wasn’t disturbing my reborn connection with Zandra, I’d feel bad for her. She’s always been composed and intent on proving her own autonomy. I’d thought that meant that we had similar goals and that we were compatible, but compatibility isn’t enough anymore.
“I have decided what I want,” I say. “And it’s in both of our best interests for us to go our separate ways.”
She stands up, sauntering over to my side of the desk. She leans her hip against the desk. “I’m not a desperate woman,” she says. “You know that. I’m not going to beg you to stay with me. But we both know we’re good together. We work well together, we have great sex, and we’re emotionally compatible. I need you to see that and not keep believing that the grass is greener on the other side.”
I pull away from her, the wheels of my chair sliding an inch across the wooden floor. “You need to go back to Paris. You’re still working on the Boutroux hotels. Your focus should be on that.”
“My focus is on you,” she says. “Most people would appreciate that.”
I glance out through the glass wall. I watch a flicker of movement as someone walks down the hallway. Elise stops in front of the wall, indicating to my phone. I check it. One missed call from Keegan. When I look up again, Elise is gone, but Alina is unfortunately still here.
"I know what you want me to say and who you want me to be, Alina," I say. "But I'm never going to be that."
"Who exactly do you think I want you to be?" she demands.
"Your husband," I say. I could add more descriptors—a trust fund, country club, fawning husband—but my intention isn't to judge or hurt her. I want her to be happy, but I'd prefer her to be happy without me.
She folds her arms over her chest, looking out my window. I look the opposite way, focusing on my door like my gaze could persuade her to leave.
When a woman walks up to the door, my fatigued, irritated mind takes a second to focus. My assumption is that it's Elise again, attempting to force me to call Keegan, but it's not Elise. It's Zandra.
Our eyes meet through the glass. She glances at Alina, who is leaning back toward me again. Zandra bolts. I burst out of my chair so quickly, I nearly knock Alina down. I run out of my office, down the hall, catching Zandra at the elevator right before she presses the button.
“Zandra—" I start, grabbing onto her arm.
“Let me guess,” she says, spinning around and yanking her arm out of my grip. “The blonde is Alina?”
“Yes,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean—"
“I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. She’s just there, in your office, standing close to you for no reason at all.”
“She surprised me. I didn’t know she was coming. She’s supposed to be in Paris.”
“Of course.” She tilts her head back like she’s having an epiphany. “Of course. You’re dating a woman in Paris. God, that is so much like you, I can’t believe I didn’t predict it.”
“It’s not like that, Zandra,” I insist. “I was doing an art show. She was another American. She had an apartment there already. But she and I are over now.”
“Look, I don’t care about your history with her. I don’t care about any of this right now,” she says. “There is only one thing I want you to know.”
