Even if the choice she wanted most was the one she'd already walked away from.
Chapter Thirty
Victoria hadn’t particularly expected that achieving everything she’d ever wanted would be quite so spectacularly boring. At least not quite so soon, anyway.
She sat in her corner office, an actual corner office, with windows overlooking the Thames and everything, and tried to muster enthusiasm for the quarterly projections spreadsheet glowing on her monitor. The numbers were impressive. The client portfolio was excellent. Her colleagues were competent and professional.
And she couldn't have cared less.
"Victoria?" Len from compliance stuck his head around her door. "Ready for the three o'clock?"
"Absolutely." She closed the spreadsheet with relief that was probably inappropriate given she was being paid an obscene amount of money to care about those particular numbers.
The meeting room was aggressively gray, filled with people in expensive suits discussing risk assessments with the sort of intense focus hostage negotiators generally used. Victoria made appropriate noises at appropriate times, contributed relevantobservations, and wondered what Cathy was planting in the kitchen garden this week.
Which was mad. Completely mad. She was a senior investment manager at one of the City's top firms, not some sort of vegetable enthusiast.
"—market volatility in the Asia-Pacific region," someone was saying.
Victoria nodded, though she was actually thinking about whether the tomatoes would need staking yet. And whether Sasha had found a horticulture course. And whether she was thinking about Victoria too, or if she'd already moved on to someone more appropriate. Someone who didn't work eighty-hour weeks and measure their worth in client retention statistics.
Someone who could actually be present for a relationship instead of married to spreadsheets and quarterly reports.
"Any thoughts, Victoria?"
She blinked, refocusing on the room full of expectant faces. "Sorry, could you repeat the question?"
Gerald from risk management looked slightly put out. "The hedging strategy for the Ashton account. You've worked with them before."
"Right. Yes." Victoria pulled herself together with effort. "I'd suggest a conservative approach given their current exposure. Perhaps we could review the derivatives portfolio and…"
She continued talking, her mouth forming professional words while her brain wandered back to Cornwall. To morning light across white sheets. To the way Sasha's nose crinkled when she laughed. To the particular shade of green in her eyes when she was about to say something wicked.
Christ, she was losing it.
After the meeting, which had somehow stretched to two hours despite containing approximately fifteen minutes of actual substance, most of which could have been contained in an email, Victoria returned to her office and stared out the window. London sprawled below her, all glass and steel and relentless forward momentum. She should be thrilled. This was everything she'd wanted, everything she'd worked for.
So why did she keep thinking about a greenhouse in Cornwall and the way Sasha's hair caught the light when she was bent over a stubborn cucumber vine?
Her computer pinged with another email.Re: Client Portfolio Review - Urgent.She opened it, scanned the contents, and felt absolutely nothing. No thrill of professional challenge, no satisfaction at being needed, just a vague sense that she was going through motions that suddenly felt hollow.
Three more emails arrived in quick succession. All marked urgent. All requiring immediate attention. All making her want to throw her laptop out the window and see if it could achieve the same sort of graceful arc as the Thames below.
She'd spent years building a career that was supposed to define her, supposed to prove she was successful and capable and worth something. And now that she had it back, all she could think about was the weight of Sasha's hand on her waist and the sound of her laughter echoing across the terrace.
Christ, she was pathetic.
Victoria pulled up her personal email, fingers hovering over the keyboard. She could write to Sasha. Just a friendly message, checking in, seeing how she was settling back into Manchester. Completely casual. Absolutely not desperate.
Except what would she even say?Hello, remember me? The woman who chose spreadsheets over you and is now regretting every single life decision?
She closed the email window and returned to the urgent portfolio review that was neither urgent nor particularly worth reviewing.
Her phone buzzed, and for one heart-stopping moment she thought it might be Sasha. But the screen showed an unknown number, and Victoria's chest deflated as she answered.
"Victoria Sullivan."
"Vic! It's Sophie. Don't hang up."
