She's what I could have been if I'd cared more about staying true to myself and less about accumulating proof of my worth.
The intercom crackles again. "Mr. Cross?"
"Send them in."
I stand, buttoning my jacket, and arrange my face into the expression I've perfected over two decades of high-stakes negotiations. Calm, cool and collected.
The meeting is efficient. The developers are smart, their proposal solid, their financial projections realistic. We discuss zoning challenges and community pushback and timeline expectations. I ask pointed questions that reveal I've done my homework. They provide answers that suggest they've done theirs.
It's all very professional. Very transactional.
I approve a feasibility study and a preliminary investment, shake hands, and promise to be in touch.
They leave looking pleased.
That hollow feeling returns immediately.
What am I doing?
The question rises unbidden, unwelcome. I've built an empire. I employ hundreds of people. I've transformed neighborhoods and skylines, created housing and commerce and spaces where people live their lives. My work matters.
But standing here, looking out at the city I've helped shape, I can't shake the feeling that I'm just moving pieces around a board.
My phone buzzes.
For one irrational moment, I think it might be her. That she's texted to say she's been thinking too, that maybe we should talk, that maybe Florence wasn't a mistake after all.
It's not her.
Victoria:The mayor is more likely to approve your permits if you show civic interest. How about funding my arts initiative?
I stare at the message, my jaw tight.
This. This is what my marriage was. Victoria managing my public image, coaching me on how to perform civic duty convincingly enough to grease political wheels. Every dinner a negotiation. Every charitable donation a strategic investment.
She's not even my wife anymore, and she's still trying to direct my life like a performance she's producing.
I delete the message without responding.
Then I pull up Emma's contact and I start typing.
Me:I know you need space. And that this is complicated. But I miss talking to you.
My thumb hovers over send.
This is a bad idea. She's made herself clear. Pushing harder will only drive her further away.
But I send the message anyway.
Then I wait, staring at my phone like a teenager waiting for his crush to respond.
The three dots appear.
My heart actually speeds up.
The dots disappear.
Reappear.
