The conference room at Harrison & Cole sat forty-two floors above Manhattan, wrapped in glass and rain. Water streaked the windows in restless lines, blurring the skyline into something cold and silver, as if the city itself did not want to witness what was about to happen.
Inside, everything was polished to perfection. The mahogany table gleamed under recessed lights, the leather chairs smelled expensive and old, and the faint bitterness of stale coffee clung to the air like the last breath of a long argument.
Emily sat at one end of the table with her hands folded neatly in her lap. She wore a simple cream sweater, black trousers, and no jewelry at all, not even the wedding ring that had once felt heavier than gold.
She looked calm from a distance. But calm was not the same thing as unhurt, and the quiet inside her had not come from peace.
It had come from exhaustion.
Across from her, Ethan Carter checked his watch for the third time in less than two minutes. He looked exactly like the version of himself the financial magazines loved—clean jawline, perfect navy suit, expensive steel watch, and a confidence so sharp it seemed almost rehearsed.
Vanessa sat beside him, long legs crossed, a pale pink designer coat draped over her shoulders like a trophy. She barely looked up from her phone, though every so often her lips curved in a small private smile, the kind that said she already believed she had won.
