I scanned the coffee shop, my heart racing. Had I imagined him? No, there—a tall figure in a charcoal overcoat,pushing through the door onto the street. By the time I grabbed my coffee and followed, he'd vanished into the crowd.
I stood on the sidewalk, the October wind cutting through my blazer, and told myself I was being insane. A stranger in a coffee shop. It meant nothing.
But those eyes. I couldn't shake the feeling that they'd seen right through me.
***
Lisa met me for lunch at the Thai place near her office. She took one look at my face and ordered us both wine, despite it being barely noon.
"That bad?" she asked, sliding a glass across the table.
"Mr. Brown eviscerated my presentation." I took a long swallow, not caring about the curious glance from the waiter. "Said I was coasting on my name. As if the Blanchard name means anything anymore."
"He's an asshole," Lisa said flatly. "Everyone knows it. HR has a file on him thicker than the phone book."
"It doesn't matter. He's still my boss. He still controls whether I get promoted or pushed out." I poked at my pad Thai without appetite. "I just feel like no matter what I do, I can't win. I can't prove myself. There's always going to be someone who thinks I don't deserve to be there."
Lisa was quiet for a moment, studying me with those sharp paralegal eyes that missed nothing. "Is that why you look like you haven't slept? Because of work?"
I hesitated. The paranoid imaginings of last night felt stupid in the bright light of day, with Lisa's practical presenceacross from me. But I needed to tell someone, needed to hear her say I was being ridiculous, so I could believe it.
"I think someone's been watching me," I said quietly.
Lisa's eyebrows shot up. "What?"
"Last night, after I left Finnegan's. There was a black SUV parked outside my building. It had followed me from the bar—I'm almost sure of it. And then..." I trailed off, shaking my head. "I don't know. I've been feeling eyes on me for a few days now. Like someone's tracking my movements."
"Jesus, Gaby." Lisa leaned forward, her wine forgotten. "Have you called the police?"
"And told them what? A car parked on a public street? A feeling?" I laughed bitterly. "They'd think I was crazy. I think I'm crazy."
"You're not crazy. But you are stressed, exhausted, and running on fumes." She reached across to squeeze my hand. "When's the last time you took a day off? A real one, not just a weekend spent catching up on emails?"
I couldn't remember.
"Maybe you should talk to someone," Lisa said gently. "A professional. Not because you're crazy, but because you're burning out. The paranoia, the insomnia, the feeling like you can't measure up—that's anxiety, Gaby. Textbook anxiety. And it's treatable."
She was probably right. She was almost always right. But the thought of admitting I needed help—of confirming that I wasn't strong enough to handle things on my own—felt like another failure.
"I'll think about it," I said, which we both knew meant no.
***
My father called at seven, just as I was walking home from the subway. The sky had gone dark early, heavy clouds threatening rain, and the streetlights cast long shadows across the sidewalk.
"Gabrielle." His voice was clipped, efficient. "I wanted to remind you about the Carlsen gala next month. You'll need an appropriate dress."
No greeting. No "how are you." Just straight to business, as always.
"I remember, Dad."
"Carlsen's son will be there. Recently divorced, works in venture capital. I told his father you'd be happy to sit with them at dinner."
I stopped walking, my free hand clenching at my side. "You're setting me up? Without asking me?"
"I'm providing you with an opportunity. You're twenty-five, Gabrielle. It's time to start thinking strategically about your future."
Strategically.Like marriage was a business merger. Like my value could be calculated in terms of connections and potential grandchildren.
