“Yes,” he said.
Her eyes widened.
“You agreed.”
“You brought it up.”
A strange laugh escaped her.
Then her eyes filled again.
“I really am.”
Mark fastened the belt.
“Tonight isn’t the night to do your annual performance review.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re drunk.”
“I am not drunk.”
“You tried to negotiate the size of wine glasses.”
Victoria leaned her head against the seat.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Mark said, “I’m helping because it’s the right thing to do.”
She opened her eyes.
“And because everyone deserves a second chance.”
The sentence stayed between them.
Victoria looked out the window.
Mark started the car.
Across the street, sitting inside a black Mercedes near the curb, Richard Townsend watched them pull away.
Mark did not see him.
Victoria certainly did not.
Richard was CEO of Townsend Financial Group, Reynolds Marketing Agency’s largest client.
Earlier that afternoon, Victoria had nearly destroyed the relationship.
The strategy meeting had gone badly.
Richard had challenged a campaign direction.
Victoria had responded too sharply.
Then, when one of his executives disagreed, Victoria accused their internal team of “lacking courage.”
Richard had left furious.
He had come to the Velvet Lounge later for a drink before returning to his hotel.
Instead, through the window, he had watched Victoria arguing with the bartender.
He had watched Mark arrive.
He had watched Mark take responsibility for someone who had embarrassed herself.
And he had started thinking.
The drive to Victoria’s penthouse was mostly quiet.
Every few minutes she gave directions even though the GPS was already guiding them.
“Left.”
“I know.”
“Not this left.”
“It’s literally showing me.”
“I don’t trust machines.”
“You run a digital marketing agency.”
“I don’t trust this machine.”
Eventually Mark pulled beneath the canopy of a luxury residential tower overlooking the river.
The doorman hurried out.
“Ms. Winters?”
Victoria waved vaguely.
“Hello, Samuel.”
Samuel looked at Mark.
Then at Victoria.
Then back at Mark.
Mark immediately said, “It’s not what you think.”
Samuel smiled politely.
“I didn’t think anything, sir.”
“You absolutely did.”
Victoria laughed against Mark’s shoulder.
The penthouse was on the thirty-fourth floor.
When the doors opened, Mark helped her down a quiet corridor.
“Keys?”
Victoria dug through her purse.
Lipstick.
Wallet.
A packet of tissues.
Two pens.
A business card.
Another lipstick.
Finally, a black key card.
“There.”
Mark opened the door.
The apartment was beautiful.
And completely lifeless.
White marble.
Black furniture.
Chrome fixtures.
Artwork that looked expensive but impersonal.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
No family photographs.
No clutter.
No shoes near the entrance.
No stack of unopened mail.
No half-finished cup of coffee.
Nothing that suggested a human being actually lived there.
It reminded Mark of hotel suites used in advertisements.
Victoria stumbled inside.
“Bathroom.”
“Which door?”
“That one.”
She pointed confidently.
Mark opened it.
Closet.
Victoria frowned.
“Other one.”
Eventually he got her to the bathroom.
Then retreated to the kitchen.
He found a glass.
Filled it with water.
Opened the refrigerator looking for something bland she might eat.
The refrigerator was almost empty.
Sparkling water.
Yogurt.
A bottle of expensive champagne.
Half a lemon.
Takeout containers.
Then he noticed the photograph.
It was attached to the stainless-steel door with a small blue magnet.
Victoria looked about twenty-six.
Her hair was loose.
She wore jeans.
Beside her stood an older woman with the same gray-blue eyes and strong cheekbones.
Both were laughing.
Not smiling for a camera.
Laughing.
Mark stared.
He had never seen Victoria look like that.
“Her name was Eleanor.”
Mark turned.
Victoria stood behind him wearing a robe over her stained blouse.
She looked marginally more stable.
“My mother.”
Mark glanced back at the photograph.
“You look like her.”
“That’s what everyone said.”
Victoria moved toward the counter.
“Sit.”
“You should sit.”
“I live here.”
“Congratulations.”
She gave him a tired look.
Mark guided her toward a stool.
She accepted the water.
Then said, “Five years.”
“What?”
“Today.”
She looked toward the photograph.
“My mother died five years ago today.”
Understanding landed slowly.
“Oh.”
Victoria drank.
“She had ovarian cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was supposed to be treatable.”
Her voice sounded flat.
“They said she had time.”
She rubbed her thumb against the side of the glass.
“She didn’t.”
Mark said nothing.
Victoria continued.
“I worked the day she died.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“She told me to.”
A laugh without humor.
“She said sitting in that hospital room watching her sleep wasn’t helping either of us.”
Victoria’s eyes filled.
“I had a client meeting at three.”
“She died at three twenty-seven.”
Mark lowered his eyes.
“I missed it by eleven minutes.”
The apartment became very quiet.
Outside, the Chicago skyline glittered.
“I’ve hated this date ever since,” Victoria whispered.
Mark thought about his father.
He had died when Mark was twenty-four.
Heart attack.
No warning.
One morning Robert Reynolds had been complaining about the neighbor’s lawn mower.
That evening he was gone.
“I lost my dad young,” Mark said.
Victoria looked at him.
“Heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Anniversaries are strange.”
He leaned against the counter.
“You think you’re doing okay. Then a date arrives and suddenly your body remembers before your mind does.”
Victoria’s expression softened.
“Yes.”
For a minute, they were simply two people standing in a kitchen talking about dead parents.
Not boss and employee.
Not victim and tyrant.
Just two people carrying grief differently.
Victoria looked at him.
“Why are you kind to me?”
Mark sighed.
“We covered this.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened slightly.
“Really.”
“You should hate me.”
Mark considered lying.
Instead he said, “Sometimes I do.”
She flinched.
He immediately regretted the bluntness, but continued.
“You make my life harder than it needs to be.”
“I know.”
“You denied Lily’s recital.”
Victoria closed her eyes.
“I know.”
“You called me during her birthday dinner last year.”
“I remember.”
“You told me everyone has personal problems when she had pneumonia.”
Victoria stared at the floor.
“That was unforgivable.”
“It was pretty bad.”
“You should’ve left me at the bar.”
“I considered it.”
That made her smile faintly.
Mark continued.
“But I don’t think people should become the worst thing they’ve done.”
Victoria looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because then none of us get to grow.”
Her phone rang.
The sound shattered the moment.
Victoria glanced at the screen.
All color left her face.
“Richard.”
“Richard Townsend?”
She nodded.
“Don’t answer.”
“I have to.”
“Not like this.”
“He’s our largest client.”
“Which is exactly why you should not answer drunk.”
Victoria was already swiping.
Her posture changed instantly.
“Richard. What a pleasant surprise.”
Mark stared.
Even barely able to stand, Victoria could summon her professional voice.
Richard’s response was loud enough for Mark to hear fragments.
“Unprofessional.”
“Earlier meeting.”