Chapter two
Three Months Later
TheinvestortriptoDubai ends in toasts and applause.
Sunlight glares off polished steel in the conference room high above the city. Numbers are agreed to. Paper signed. Hands shaken. A photograph is taken for posterity. I hold my expression steady, nod at the right moments and allow my colleagues to believe I’m focused solely on the scale of the transaction we finally closed.
After the hoopla, I’m on my way to the elevator when my phone vibrates. Julian. It’s not about the wedding, it’s only a five-word text.
Julian: Acquisition proposal. Full buy-out.
Patience prevails until I locate my driver. Once I’m settled into my seat and on my way to the private hangar, I open the Letter of Intent. It’s an absurd number with numerous zeroes. The purchase price glares like a beacon. My business. Everything I’ve spent the past decade building. Reduced to a price.
Shiny towers whizz past the window and one thought runs on a continuous loop.
Am I in a simulation?
I should be elated thinking about valuation and the structure of this deal.
Strangely, I’m bummed. Instead of returning to Seattle, I’m rerouting to New York. Closing a transaction of this magnitude requires my immediate presence. Eye contact. Vibes. The whole thing.
I’d hoped to make Monday dinner with Sky.
We haven’t seen each other since our last dinner, but we communicate nearly every day. Yesterday, she sent a photo of her desk at Finney Cooper, paper stacked in clean vertical lines, captioned with dry commentary about surviving another contentious divorce.
I sent her a photo of the skyline from Dubai, neon and impossible, accompanied by a quip about sovereign wealth fund managers behaving badly.
Everything is easy. Familiar.
Us.
I was looking forward to spending time with her. Our ritual matters more to me than most things in my life. Without fail, when we’re both in town, I show up. She shows up. No scheduling gymnastics. No calendar invites. It’s understood.
For years, it’s been the one place where I’m not compelled to negotiate, perform, or close. I sit. Breathe. Watch her tilt her head when she challenges me. Delight when the purple streak in her hair catches the light when she leans back in the booth.
Sky added it to her hairstyle about a decade ago after a particularly challenging year. A male associate threw her under the bus to a partner. He, in turn, chastised her for being too meek. She was devastated.
Everyone in our friend group propped her up. Encouraged her to be herself and the rest would follow.
A week later, we had our regular dinner at the Met. She showed up with a slash of bright violet framing her face. No explanation.
A declaration.
I won’t allow myself to be submissive.
She’s kept it ever since, I think, because it gives her the courage not to shrink. It’s a slightly softer shade now, woven nearly innocuously through her dark strands. I love it because it reminds me she belongs to no one but herself.
Our last dinner before I left for Dubai isn’t a comfortable memory the way most of our evenings are. It lingers in my body. Permeates my ribs when I’m alone, bringing to mind something we started and never finished.
When I told her I wanted her on my plane, she started up the usual banter but didn’t blow me off. Or deflect to get out of it. Instead, she went still. No sideways comments. Nothing clever to lower the temperature between us.
The air actually realigned. Not loudly or dramatically. Her beautiful face softened. I’d only seen her loosen up this much once before. The night of graduation. Her apartment. Half-packed to move across country. Mattress on the floor. A lamp in the corner casting soft light on her skin.
Sky watched me approach with a combination of desire and confusion. She didn’t retreat, though. She sank back slowly, palms flattening on the sheets behind her as she eased down.
I can still see her, spine curved like a cat. Hair fanned over the pillow. Shoulders relaxed only because she willed them to be. Her generous breasts rose and fell with each breath. Nipples darkening and taut under my stare. Thighs open enough to expose her glistening pussy.
To this day, I’ve never felt more trusted as when the woman I’d coveted for years exposed her most intimate parts to me.
