We're standing, shaking hands, when the private dining room door opens.
And Vanessa Carter walks in.
My ex-fiancée. The woman I once thought I’d spend forever with.
Eight years.
It's been eight fucking years since I've seen her in person, and she looks the same as ever.
Blonde, polished, wearing a power suit probably paid for by the blood of fifty subordinates.
"Donovan." Her smile is practiced, professional. "What a surprise."
"Vanessa." My voice comes out flat. "What are you doing here?"
"Same thing you are. Business lunch." She turns to Michael and Patricia. "I hope I'm not interrupting. Michael mentioned you'd be here, and I thought I'd stop by to discuss a potentialpartnership."
Michael looks uncomfortable. "Vanessa's firm has been following Titan's progress. They're interested in international expansion opportunities."
Of course they are.
Vanessa's venture capital firm specializes in tech companies going global. It's actually a smart partnership.
It's also completely calculated.
"Why don't we all sit back down?" Patricia suggests, ever the diplomat. "Vanessa, you can present your proposal."
I want to say no. Want to walk out. Want to be anywhere except in a room with my ex-fiancée while my current... whatever Emma is... won't speak to me.
But this is goddamned business. And I don't let personal feelings interfere with business.
Even when those personal feelings include the woman who told me I was incapable of being present for anything except work.
"Fine," I say, sitting back down. "You have fifteen minutes."
Vanessa's smile sharpens. "That's all I need."
Her presentation is good. Annoyingly good.
Her firm has connections throughout Asia and Europe. They've successfully guided three tech companies through international expansion in the past two years. The financial projections are solid.
It's exactly the kind of partnership Titan needs for global growth.
"Impressive," Patricia says when Vanessa finishes. "Donovan, what do you think?"
What I think is that Vanessa showing up now—right when my life is imploding—is too convenient to be coincidence.
What I say is: "I'll need to review the terms with my team. We can schedule a follow-up next week."
"Of course." Vanessa closes her laptop. "Michael, Patricia, thank you for the introduction. Donovan, walk me out?"
It's not really a question.
Michael and Patricia exchange glances but don't object as Vanessa stands, clearly expecting me to follow.
I do, because refusing would be childish and unprofessional.
We walk through The Modern's main dining room in silence. The restaurant is bustling with the lunch crowd—business people discussing deals, tourists admiring the MoMA sculpture garden visible through floor-to-ceiling windows.
