2
ADRIAN
Ipace the length of my apartment for the twelfth time in an hour. Pacing is not something I do. Ever. It's inefficient, lacks purpose, and accomplishes nothing.
Yet here I am.
The will sits on my glass coffee table, corners aligned with the table edge. I've reviewed it repeatedly, searched for alternatives, and found none. The document is legally sound. Unorthodox, but binding.
My loft stretches before me—exposed brick walls, minimalist furniture, everything in its exact place. The river glitters beyond the glass, the city skyline a jagged silhouette against the sky. I should find the view calming. I don't.
I've loosened my tie. Rolled up my shirtsleeves. Both rare occurrences, particularly at 5:52 p.m. on a weekday. I'm not even normally home at this time.
My coffee cup sits on the kitchen counter—black, no sugar—now cold and forgotten. I check my watch: Emmy should arrive inexactly eight minutes, assuming she's punctual. Something tells me punctuality isn't her strength.
Jesus Christ, what am I doing?
I wipe my palms on my slacks, annoyed at the physical reaction. This is a business meeting. Nothing more. And yet I'm acting like a teenage boy asking a girl out for the first time. Except I don't do that. Never did.
Violet's words echo: "She needs someone who won't give up on her when she's stubborn."
I argued against the clause for forty-five minutes. Violet had simply smiled—that same smile that reminded me so much of my mother, Caroline. The same quiet confidence. The warmth.
"Adrian," she said, smiling softly, "sometimes the most logical people make the most illogical decisions about love."
I stop before the windows, hands clasped behind my back. The objective remains clear: Emmy needs to meet the will's requirements. She needs the library—I saw it in her eyes when I read the clause, that flash of devastation. I've analyzed her reaction a dozen times this week.
The thing is…
I require something too.
Judith Morrison's words from yesterday's partner meeting replay in my mind: "Adrian, your work is impeccable, but managing partner requires balance. Yes, even though your father's name is in that logo outside. The partners need to see you're human, not just a legal machine."
Then there's my promise to Violet. Three separate visits to her estate, conversations in that remarkable library. Each time she'd look at me with those hazel eyes—so like Emmy's—and say, "You remind me of my granddaughter. Both brilliant, both hiding from life."
I disagreed. I wasn't hiding. I was focused.
Violet died two days after our last conversation. I'd promised to look after Emmy, without fully understanding what that entailed.
Now I do.
I straighten my tie again, then catch myself. Stop.
Emmy has occupied more of my thoughts this week than is appropriate. I've replayed our confrontation over and over: the fire in her eyes, the tremor in her voice when she realized what Violet had done. I noticed details I shouldn't have—how her hands shook with anger, the way she pressed her thumb against that vintage brooch.
My solution is unorthodox, maybe unethical by traditional standards. But I've analyzed it from every angle.
First, Emmy needs to meet the will's requirements or lose something irreplaceable.
Second, I need to demonstrate work-life balance to secure the managing partner position.
Third, I made a promise to Violet.
The doorbell rings. This is it. No backing out now.
I straighten my tie again, realize what I'm doing, and stop. This is a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial solution. Nothing more.
I cross to the door and open it.
