“Enough to matter.”
My jaw tightens. “The carrier was vetted.”
“Triple-checked,” Jack confirms. “Paper trail’s clean. Which is the problem.”
I’m already moving, my brain snapping into place. CEO mode clicks on like armor.
“Where was the handoff before final clearance?”
Jack pulls up a tablet, scrolling quickly. “Temporary warehouse in England. Outside London. Only point in the chain where the product wasn’t under our direct supervision.”
There it is.
I spend the next hour dissecting the process—who signed off, who had access, where the cameras were, where theyweren’t. Calls stack on top of calls. Legal. Insurance. Overseas contacts. Damage control in real time.
By noon, I know two things.
Someone got sloppy.
And someone’s going to regret it.
But even with my focus locked in, my mind keeps drifting.
I wonder if Sabrina made it to Mrs. D’s yet. If Olga was excited to see her. If she will remember to eat lunch —or if she will just drink coffee and forget the rest.
I make a mental note to ask her where she’s at with the nonprofit planning. What stage she’s in. What she needs next.
Halfway through the afternoon, between calls, I pull out my phone.
Langston:
Checking in. Don’t forget to eat lunch.
And tell Olga I said hi.
I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary before setting the phone face-down on the desk.
I shouldn’t be this distracted.
I’ve built empires while under more pressure than this.
But somehow, the thing unraveling my focus today isn’t missing rubies or international warehouses.
It’s the woman I didn’t kiss goodbye.
I get home later than I meant to.
The day unraveled into one long, grinding mess of calls and fixes and contingency plans, and by the time I finally shut my laptop, the office was quiet in that way that makes you realize you stayed too long. I’d called Mabel earlier—told her to make dinner for Sabrina and to stay, eat with her. I didn’t want her alone tonight. Not after everything.
When I step inside, the house smells… warm. Comforting. Garlic and herbs and something sweet I can’t place right away. Home, if I let myself think it.
I hang my coat, loosen my tie, and round the corner into the living room.
The candle on the coffee table is the first thing I see—small flame flickering, casting a soft glow across the room.
Then I see her.
Sabrina is curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, one arm draped awkwardly across her lap. Her notebooks are everywhere—open, stacked, fanned out like she fell asleep mid-thought. A pen is still loosely held between her fingers.
