Read: That makes me very happy. We can kick around investor strategies on our date tomorrow, if you want. Two birds. One extremely charming stone.
My stomach dipped, nerves and anticipation tangling. Tomorrow. Marina’s.
Me: That sounds good.
Read: Perfect. Unfortunately, work is yelling at me. I’ll message you later, okay?
Me: Okay. Good luck.
The screen dimmed and I turned back to the three of them.
“All right,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Show me the shoes.”
Jennifer held up her screen. Simple white ballet flats with a small bow at the toe. “It’s for the wife,” she said, pointing her chin at Kevin. “Her birthday is on Sunday.”
Kevin leaned in, squinting. “Are we sure those aren’t just slippers?”
“They are shoes,” Jennifer said through her teeth. “They’ll be here by Saturday. I’ll send you a venmo request for $30.”
“$30 for slippers?” he asked incredulously.
“They aren’t slippers,” Jennifer and I said in unison.
David shook his head into his glass. “I am not drunk enough for this conversation.”
I let their banter roll over me, easy and familiar. Out the window, the city edged toward evening, towers rimmed in gold before they slid into blue.
The investors still didn’t really believe in me. They probably never would.
But Holt’s timeline sat in my inbox. My team sat in my office. Read’s messages sat in my pocket, full of tools and a kind of steady faith I hadn’t decided what to do with yet.
For the first time in a long time, that thought didn’t feel like weakness.
It felt like the start of something else entirely.
Not safety. Not certainty.
Just… possibility.
Chapter 8
***
The afternoon light slanted across my bedroom, turning the dark wallpaper into a wash of color. The team had scattered for a rare day off—Kevin parading his wife through the farmers’ market like a prize he’d finally earned, David driving upstate for a weekend with his daughter, Jennifer vanishing to a spa with the explicit warning that unless Elion was on fire, she was unreachable.
As for me: steam, heat, and the sweet curl of vanilla in the air. Water slid down my arms and legs in even ribbons. Tonight was the night. My heart fluttered as I soaped and exfoliated, each motion a plea that dinner would go the way I needed.
“Are you almost finished in there?” Candace called from my closet, hangers clacking in a restless symphony.
“I said I could dress myself,” I muttered, stepping out of the shower—jerking back as her head popped around the doorframe.
“You smell good already.”
“Candace!” I snatched a towel from the warmer and wrapped it tight. “You said you’d stay in the closet.”
“Nobody puts Baby in the closet,” she replied, perfectly deadpan.
“It’s a corner.”
